


Tessellation

by nekosmuse



Category: X-Men (Comicverse), X-Men: First Class (2011) - Fandom
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Alternate Universe, Angsty Schmoop, BAMF!Charles, BAMF!Raven, Brotherhood of Mutants, Charles You Will Be Drunk, Chess is a valid form of seduction, First Meetings, First Time, Happy Ending, M/M, Magneto is a terrifying fanboy, Magneto is one crazy mofo, Mutant Rights, Oh Magneto bless your terrible fashion sense, Paralysis, Possessive Behavior, Romance, Telepathic Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-10-22
Updated: 2011-10-22
Packaged: 2017-10-24 20:55:17
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 26
Words: 116,668
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/267790
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nekosmuse/pseuds/nekosmuse
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He had been following Xavier's career for years. He had read and reread and reread again everything the man had written. He had tried, on more occasions than he could count, to recruit Xavier into the Brotherhood, but each request for a meeting had been denied. Aside from his work, no one knew anything about Xavier. Not what he looked like, not the full extent of his power--though from what little they did know, he was by far the most powerful telepath in existence--and not what his intentions were.</p><p>The man was a recluse. As far as Magneto knew, Xavier had never once stepped foot outside his impenetrable Westchester manor. And now he was scheduled as the keynote speaker for the largest pro-mutant conference in the world.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> A fusion with comic!canon and the 1990s animated series. Written for the following kinkmeme prompts:
> 
> 1) This is an odd request, but I'd like a fill where Erik and Charles go on to be important mutant advocates (in their own very different ways), but while they know of each other, they've never actually met.
> 
> Cue them eventually meeting at some big function celebrating a mutant legislative victory (or something). They hit it right off and skip out on the celebration/rally in order to play chess and have long discussions. In other words, they fall in love...
> 
> 2) I want an AU where a moderately less crazy than usual Erik meets Charles after he has already been paralysed, and is still interested. Charles is completely paraplegic, no feeling or function below the injury at all, which is particularly annoying, since he can hear what everyone is thinking about him. But he deals, because he's cool like that.
> 
> Erik has been traveling all over the world being scary and raaar, and he's intrigued that this little physically vulnerable guy isn't afraid of him at all. Love ensues.
> 
> Cover art for Tessellation can be found here: http://nekosmuse.com/tessellationcover.png and was made by the lovely eira_cannaid. Thank you!

_Tessellation: a continuous, repeated pattern made up the same shapes that must fit together exactly, with no spaces or overlap._

 

Shortly after his mother's death, Erik made a list. A list of the people he would someday kill. For many years it held a single name: Klaus Schmidt. By the time he left Schmidt's care, Schmidt's Nazi employers scattered and broken, Erik's list had grown. In the years that followed his list dwindled, bloated corpses left in his wake, until once again the list held a single name: Klaus Schmidt. And then Schmidt was dead, Nazi relic through his skull, and Erik's list was exhausted. Magneto was born.

Magneto kept a list. A list of those he would like to kill, but never would, because some bonds--like the bonds of brotherhood--were stronger than any desire for revenge. At present, two names occupied that list.

The first was Emma Frost, for first suggesting the Brotherhood incorporate, an act that, five years later, still caused Magneto no end of grief.

The second was his personal assistant, Anna Marie, who, in an entirely selfish act as far as Magneto was concerned, had scheduled her honeymoon the same week as the Brotherhood's fiscal year end.

He felt a headache coming on. It trickled through the back of his skull, made worse by the weight of his helmet. Had he been alone, he might have removed it and pressed his forehead to the cooling metal of his desk. Instead he stared up at the awkward, fumbling girl trying to fill Rogue's shoes.

"I realize you're new, but didn't Rogue go over your duties with you before she left?" Magneto said around clenched teeth. Jubilee, that was her name, and from the look of her she wasn't old enough to reproduce, let alone claim membership in the Brotherhood.

"Um, yes, Sir, that is, yes, but..."

Magneto glared. Jubilee cleared her throat and tried again, overeager in her need to please. The brightness of her yellow dust jacket was making his headache worse.

"Raven… That is, Mystique, said you would want to see this personally." Again she thrust the gilded invitation under Magneto's nose, like opening the day's mail was somehow worthy of his time. He kept his hands, palms down, on the desk, leaving the invitation to tremble in Jubilee's grasp. She was afraid of him. Good.

"Mystique is having you on. I don't do functions. I have no interest in attending the annual Mutant Rights Symposium."

A pointless event, with more dithering than calls to action; mutants of privilege arguing over every piece of legislation they managed to push through the congresses of the world. Magneto knew better than that. Change came on the back of an iron first. It was not forged in suit-filled rooms.

A wave of his hand should have dismissed the girl, but she stood her ground, shaking though she was. Rogue would have known to leave. He hoped she and Gambit were happy, because as soon as she returned Magneto was going to make her life miserable.

"What?" he asked, exasperated.

"Mystique said to tell you that Professor Charles Xavier would be acting as this year's keynote speaker."

The news was surprising enough that Magneto forgot himself and reached across the desk to snatch the invitation from Jubilee's outstretched hand. He waved her away, forgetting her entirely as she fled the room. He turned his chair to face the window, cradling the invitation in his palm.

Professor Charles Xavier. Mystique knew him well.

It took twenty minutes to track Mystique down once he decided he needed her, the Brotherhood's Genosha base a sprawling complex that spanned half of the island. He found her in the planning and ops room, bent, half sprawled, across the briefing table.

"Professor Xavier is giving the keynote address at the Symposium this year," he said without preamble.

Mystique glanced up from the set of blueprints she was examining and arched a delicate eyebrow, gold eyes glowing briefly in amusement.

"I thought you would like that," she said. With a flick of her wrist, she ordered the other mutants from the room. Magneto waited until they were alone to continue speaking.

"Has it been confirmed?" he asked. "Because I don't need to remind you that Professor Xavier has never once made a public appearance."

This Magneto knew for a fact. He had been following Xavier's career for years. He had read and reread and reread again everything the man had written. He had tried, on more occasions than he could count, to recruit Xavier into the Brotherhood, but each request for a meeting had been denied. Aside from his work, no one knew anything about Xavier. Not what he looked like, not the full extent of his power--though from what little they did know, he was by far the most powerful telepath in existence--and not what his intentions were.

The man was a recluse. As far as Magneto knew, Xavier had never once stepped foot outside his impenetrable Westchester manor.

And now he was scheduled as the keynote speaker for the largest pro-mutant conference in the world.

"I have official confirmation," Mystique said. Magneto released a breath.

And just like that he was Erik again. Mystique relaxed, losing the stance of his second in command and becoming Raven, the first mutant he'd found and recruited to his cause, someone he considered a friend. Erik grinned.

"Professor Charles Xavier," he said, giddy with the thought of it. Raven echoed his grin, showing far more teeth than her true form possessed.

"Don't mock me, Mystique. Xavier is the reason the Brotherhood exists. I never would have built any of this if it weren't for his work. His manifesto, it changed my life."

This Raven already knew. Most of Magneto's earlier speeches, in the days when the Brotherhood was still only an idea, had been lifted directly from Xavier's manifesto. The words still sang in his ears. Homo superior, the next stage in human evolution, destined to replace Homo sapiens as the dominant life form on the planet. Before Xavier's manifesto, Erik was little more than a monster, a broken creation bent on destroying his creator. Xavier had made him what he was today, had given him purpose.

"What Professor Xavier did, unlocking the mutant gene, giving us a voice, giving us authenticity," Erik said gesturing wildly, caught up in fervour and unable to finish his sentence. "What we're doing here is a pale imitation of the progress he made. It we could convince him to join us… The possibilities, Raven, the possibilities."

He was dimly aware that he was beginning to sound like an obsessed fanatic, but if any man stood as idol in Magneto's life, that man was Charles Xavier.

Caught in the spell of Erik's enthusiasm, Raven stood straighter, head held high, mutant and proud. Her smile became genuine.

"I'll RSVP and make travel arrangements," she said.

"Good. And find someone else to take over your current mission. I'll need you to attend as my plus one," he said, then, as an afterthought, added, "and tell Emma to finish with year end." A fitting punishment he thought as he swept from the room, already planning the next phase of his revolution. With Charles Xavier by his side, the Brotherhood would be unstoppable.

~*~

Charles stared at his reflection in the spotted antique mirror that hung in the grand entranceway. He thought he looked pale--well, paler than usual. The dark circles beneath his eyes stood in stark contrast to the white of his cheeks. He was having second thoughts.

This was not unusual, nor unexpected. He had second thoughts every time he contemplated leaving the security of his home. The second thoughts usually won, which was why he could no longer remember the last time he'd left the property. Had it really been ten years? The thing seemed impossible, but Hank insisted the count was accurate and Charles could find no deception in the tangle of his thoughts; only sharp worry and eager relief that Charles was even considering travelling to New York to attend the Symposium.

What had he been thinking?

"Professor, the car's ready." Hank approached him cautiously, his thoughts timid, half afraid that Charles would retreat to his rooms, leave the Symposium scrambling to find a replacement. He wanted to. Oh, how he wanted to.

"I'm ready," Charles answered, to both of their surprise.

Was he really doing this?

He thought of the last time he had left this place, had travelled by automobile through the looming iron gates that cradled the house and grounds in their secure embrace. He thought of Moira, and the pink flush of her cheeks as she rolled down the window and let the damp evening air into the car. He thought of her careless laugh and then of her strangled scream. The image vanished and Charles glanced down at his legs, covered neatly by the now threadbare wool blanket Moira's mother had knitted as their wedding gift. He clasped his hands neatly in front of him, resting them on unfeeling knees.

Hank took this as permission, and wheeled him steadily through the front doors and then down the lane to where the car was parked, back door open, the trunk loose on its hinges. Charles transferred himself from his chair into the backseat with minimal help, securing himself and repositioning the blanket across his legs as Hank put the chair in the trunk and then joined him in the car. The knot in Charles' chest drew tighter. The engine rumbled to life and the car lurched forward, Charles closing his eyes against the unfamiliarity of it. They rolled forward, towards the black gates and wide world beyond. Already Charles missed the comforting scent of mahogany, the shrill whistle of his kettle, and the gentle vibrations of Cerebro.

~*~

The Grand Ballroom at the Waldorf Astoria was decorated in white and greens, twisting ivy wrapped around pillars and hanging from balconies. Pristine, hand selected calla lilies filled vases on tabletops, filling the room with their sickly sweet scent. Against the room's red and gold décor, the green and white clashed terribly. Magneto adjusted his cape and continued to scowl at the room, effectively scaring off anyone who might desire the ear of the Brotherhood's notoriously austere leader.

"Which one do you think he is?" he asked his companion, searching the face of every man in his line of sight. At his side, Mystique tilted her head, considering.

"He was paralysed, wasn't he? In that car accident that killed his wife," she eventually answered.

"I didn't know he'd had a wife," Magneto replied, shifting his gaze lower, but unless he was one of the men already seated, none sat confined to a wheelchair.

"I don't think they'd been married long." Mystique shrugged, gave him a brief smile and then slipped away into the crowd, hips swaying seductively as she went. Many a head turned to watch her pass, distracted by the sight of a beautiful, exotic woman. Magneto smiled, filled with sudden pride. He had taught her well. He turned in the opposite direction, beginning his own circuit of the room.

Dignitaries, politicians, activists, even a few faces he recognized from his own ranks filled the room. Magneto wove his way between tables and clusters of standing mutants, occasional drifts of conversation standing out from the general buzz, none of it particularly interesting, none of it particularly revolutionary. More of the same; there was a reason he did not attend these events.

The room's stage was set to receive the night's speakers, though it would be some time yet before anyone took the podium. Magneto eyed the set up critically, unimpressed by what he found, the podium set too low to prove anything other than awkward. He hesitated then, Mystique's words coming back to him. He smiled, seeing now further confirmation of Xavier's attendance.

Aside the stage was a door, locked. Magneto hesitated briefly before reaching for the mechanism, letting the metal slide apart with little more than a flick of his hand. He pushed his way inside, glad to be away from the incessant humming of the ballroom. Beyond, a narrow corridor led to a fire exit, a series of storage rooms and impromptu dressing rooms set on his right. Magneto poked his head in each. He stepped inside the third, recently cleared aside from a long, low table set without a chair. The sound of a lock releasing filled the otherwise silent space. Someone had entered the corridor through the emergency exit. He paused, cocking his ear to the side. He did not fear discovery--no one here would dare question Magneto, leader of the Brotherhood--but his curiosity was piqued.

"I'm fine, Hank. It's just a mild headache. Too many minds, nattering away; I'm not used to it."

"That's to be expected. Do you think you'll be able to block them, I mean, once you're on stage?"

Excitement coiled in Magneto's chest, his body tensing in anticipating in the same way it did on the cusp of battle. Were he a sentimental man, he would have declared his faith in fate renewed. To find the very man he was seeking here, free from the influence and interruption of the masses; it was too much to have hoped for. He was about to step out of the room and into the corridor, into Xavier's path, when a voice froze him in his tracks.

"Are you going to come out, or do I have to send Hank in after you? He's nowhere near as understanding as I, and even less impressed by those who would hide their presence behind technology. I'm assuming you have one of those dreadful helmets? Regardless, if you would kindly show yourself, it would be appreciated."

It was said with such arrogance, such imperialism, as though disobeying the command would be unthinkable, that Magneto had to smile. Leaving his helmet securely in place, he stepped into the hall, glancing past the furred mutant who stood between him and his quarry, and got his first good look at Charles Xavier.


	2. Chapter 2

The man who stepped out into the hall was easily recognizable. Even without the telltale helmet and cape, there was something about him, something in the way he loomed--drawn to his full height, confident smirk tugging at his lip--that named him easily. Magneto was an imposing figure. Charles could see why so many feared the Brotherhood's leader. He could see, too, that Magneto intended to impress, the air of command surrounding him as manufactured as it was earned.

That was not to say that Charles was unsurprised, or unimpressed. Of all the mutants he'd expected to attend this symposium, Magneto was not one of them. Despite his better judgement, Charles was curious.

"Professor Xavier," Magneto said, stepping forward, only to find his path blocked by a growling Hank.

Uncertainty and alarm radiated from Hank's thoughts. Charles tutted and then reached up to place a restraining hand around his wrist. "It's quite all right, Hank. Why don't you find Warren and let him know I've arrived."

Even as he spoke he drew his fingers to his temple, amplifying the suggestion until Hank deflated, his mind clearing of suspicion and worry. Charles had yet to take his eyes off Magneto, who watched the exchange with a growing smile, genuine amusement dancing in his eyes. When Hank had gone, he inclined his head, acknowledging Charles' power.

"You're not what I was expecting," Magneto said.

"Oh? And what were you expecting, Mr. Lehnsherr?"

Magneto tilted his head at the name, but refrained from comment. It was a well-known, if unspoken rule, that his former name no longer held meaning for him. Charles thought the concept ridiculous.

"I thought you'd be taller," Magneto said after some consideration.

Charles couldn't help himself. He laughed; a low, amused chuckle that was all the more pleasant for its unexpectedness. He couldn't remember the last time someone had caught him so off guard, and given that he was still trying to acclimatize to the press of so many minds after so long in isolation, it was a tremendous relief to have something to focus his mind on. For the first time since leaving the mansion, he felt some of his tension dissipate.

"You, on the other hand, are exactly as I pictured you," Charles said.

And he was, Charles realized. Standing tall and proud, helmet perched on his head like a crown, cape draped dramatically over his shoulders; Magneto was a figure plucked straight from the pages of a storybook. He was a carefully constructed invention, but an invention nonetheless, and with his helmet in place, Charles would never know anything of the man behind the figurehead. Staring up at Magneto now, Charles found himself wanting to know that man very badly.

"I'm glad I have not disappointed," Magneto answered, his smile shifting, edged now with something Charles interpreted as anticipation. It lasted only a moment, disappearing with the return of Hank, this time with Warren Worthington III in tow. Charles did not miss the low snarl that passed Magneto's lips.

With some degree of reluctance, Charles turned his attention to the newcomers. Warren had stuttered to a stop and was now drawing his wings back defensively. His thoughts were sharp blades of uncertainty, his respect for Magneto warring with his fear. Charles refrained from offering unwanted reassurance.

"My apologies, Mr. Lehnsherr," Charles said instead, turning his attention back to Magneto, "but I'm afraid I'm due to give a speech." In the midst of their conversation, however brief, he had forgotten his reason for being here, for having left his mansion at all. It was a strange sensation, to feel a connection to someone without the intimacy of knowing their mind. "Perhaps we will have a chance to speak again after I am finished."

"I look forward to it," Magneto answered, though his face was a mask of bitter disappointment. The expression lasted only a moment before he schooled his features to indifference. He ignored both Hank and Warren as he strode from the hall. Charles watched him leave, uncertain what exactly had just transpired. It was an unfamiliar, though only marginally worrisome experience.

~*~

Magneto found Mystique speaking to the mutant who headed the Brotherhood's Russian operations. From her stance, it was obvious she was putting pleasure before business. She stood entirely too close, leaned into Azazel's space as though they were the only two people in the room. Magneto scowled and then took perverse delight in interrupting them.

"Come," he said, grasping her elbow and drawing her towards their assigned table. To her credit, she came without protest, instantly slipping into soldier mode.

"No one's seen Xavier," she said. "Half the people I spoke with are convinced he isn't going to show. The rest think he's still locked inside his mansion and intends to transport us all to an astral plane, give his speech via Cerebro."

Now that would be something, Magneto thought, even as he shook his head.

"He's here. I had the distinct pleasure of bumping into him. He's agreed to talk after the speech."

It was not technically true, but close enough for Magneto's purposes. He still didn't know why he had agreed to wait, when he should have simply sent Worthington from the room, demanded ten minutes of Xavier's time. His speech could have waited. Were it not for his helmet, he would have suspected Xavier of having coerced his cooperation.

Mystique had stopped walking and was staring at him now, eyes wide with excitement.

"He's really here? You've met him?" she said. For as much as she'd mocked him before, there were very few mutants in the world who would dismiss the chance to meet Charles Xavier.

"He's..." Magneto considered. "Unassuming," he decided, not quite certain how to describe Xavier. Inconspicuous also came to mind, but Magneto suspected Xavier put as much effort into his outward appearance as Magneto did. Everything about Xavier was designed to put people at ease; from his slight form to his oversized, dated clothes, to the floppy mass of hair that had spilled into his face, obscuring his too blue eyes. The mind of a god inside the body of a harmless academic; Magneto had to admit, he was impressed.

Still, it was obviously not the answer Mystique was looking for, frown marring the beauty of her cerulean complexion. Magneto waved aside her impending interrogation, beckoning her towards their table instead. By the time they were sat, the house lights were dimming.

There was a mad scramble for chairs as the Symposium's attendees realized what was happening. Slowly the tables filled, Magneto taking a moment to delight in having so many mutants in one room. This was what he missed in not attending these events; the solidarity, the brotherhood of belonging to a new and better race. He was so caught up in the beauty of it that he almost missed Xavier taking the stage.

Then again, so did most of the Symposium. There was no fanfare, no triumphant declaration, only the furred mutant Magneto had met earlier wheeling Xavier onto the stage. Xavier cleared his throat into the microphone and then paused to brush a stray lock of hair from his eyes. A murmur of confusion ran through the crowd. Mystique leaned into his space.

"You neglected to mention he was gorgeous. In a stuffy, nerdy sort of way," she said.

Magneto ignored her. He was waiting to see how the crowd would react. There was a sense of confused disappointment hanging in the air. They had expected something grander, and were uncertain how to respond to this seemingly harmless, understated man.

And then Xavier opened his mouth and began speaking.

And like everyone else in the room, even with the shielding properties of his helmet, Magneto was caught in Xavier's spell. His voice carried throughout the hall--likely would have with or without the microphone--his words clear, concise, and said with conviction. His speech touched on mutant evolution and mutant rights and the need for further progress. Magneto listened with rapt attention, his mind glossing over the impossibilities of some of Xavier's more idealistic thoughts--like the peaceful coexistence between mutants and humans--focusing instead on the promise of human extinction, on the rise of mutantkind as the eventual heirs of the planet. In the hour that he spoke, Magneto sat breathless, spellbound.

"We have it in us to be the better men," Xavier began his closing remarks, and when he had finished, not a single mutant remained seated. Magneto stood alongside his brothers and sisters, joining in the applause, body trembling with the _possibilities_ hinted at in Xavier's speech.

When Xavier left the stage, as innocuous as he'd entered, the applause was still ringing throughout the room. Shouted requests for an encore echoed through the great room. Magneto did not wait to see if it would be honoured, instead grabbing Mystique's arm and dragging her towards the stage-side door.

The hall beyond was empty, but voices carried from one of the rooms. Magneto smiled.

Inside the third room, the one with the long, low table where Magneto had first heard Xavier's voice, he found Xavier, along with his furred assistant, Worthington and a red-headed girl he didn't recognize. The room was not meant to hold six people, so when Magneto stepped inside, Mystique on his heel, the space became claustrophobic.

"Professor," Magneto said.

Xavier, who was clutching the arms of his chair, face pale, damp beads of perspiration clinging to his forehead, glanced up at Magneto's arrival. Magneto watched, intrigued, as his shoulders dropped, complexion warming. His grip on the chair relaxed and he smiled, seeming pleased by Magneto's arrival.

"Mr. Lehnsherr," he said. "And I believe this is your companion, Ms. Raven Darkholme."

"I prefer Mystique," Mystique interrupted, pressing further into the room, eyeing its occupants, assessing their weaknesses, and strengths.

"Of course, my apologies," Xavier said. "I believe you both know Warren. This is his ward, Jean Grey," he inclined his head toward the red-head, "and, of course, my assistant, Hank McCoy."

Magneto remained silent through the introductions, though his gaze never left Xavier's face. None of the others interested him. He was here for Xavier and Xavier alone.

"I was hoping we could speak alone," he said, capturing Xavier's gaze, sharing an entire conversation in that single glance. He could only imagine the things they could communicate should he give Xavier access to his mind.

Xavier's smile never faltered, but he did glance briefly at Hank before answering. "Of course," he said.

At his side, Hank bristled, fur standing on end, his lip curling back in a snarl. It was becoming a familiar look. Magneto spared him a single glance before resuming eye contact with Xavier.

"I don't think this is a good idea, Charles," Hank said, but Xavier merely shook his head, eyes glazing over as he was lost to a conversation Magneto wasn't privy to.

"It's fine, Hank," Xavier said aloud.

Whether his word was enough or he had once again used his powers to influence the others in the room, one by one they cleared the space until there was only the three of them remaining. Magneto broke eye contact long enough to glance over his shoulder.

"Make sure we're not disturbed," he said, ordering Mystique from the room. She left with quick efficiency, movements graceful as ever, and Magneto knew she would take position outside the door, far enough away to avoid eavesdropping, but close enough to be on hand should he need her. There was a reason she stood as his second in command.

As soon as the door closed behind her, Magneto turned around, only to find Xavier watching him intently. There was no hesitancy in his gaze; none of the usual fear, or grudging respect, or even cautious uncertainty that Magneto was expecting. Xavier's expression held only open curiosity, as though Magneto was a specimen he wanted to place under a microscope.

"I'd offer you a seat, but I'm afraid..." he said, gesturing to the awkwardly cleared room. Aside from the table, there were a handful of crates and boxes stacked in the corner, as though pushed there to clear enough space in the room for a man in a wheelchair.

"Did you influence them into leaving?" Magneto asked, unable to contain his curiosity.

Xavier's smile widened. "I may have given them a slight nudge," he said.

And he had done so without bringing his fingers to his temple, which meant the gesture was little more than a distraction, something worth knowing. Magneto chuckled. He had no intention of underestimating this man, however much Xavier wanted him to.

"You're thinking about it in the wrong way," Xavier said, shaking his head when Magneto's expression turned to stone. "No, I'm not reading you mind, but I don't have to be a mind reader to know what you're thinking. It's not manipulation." Here Xavier placed his fingers against his temple in demonstration. "It really does help me focus, though it is entirely unnecessary. Still, when I'm tired, or nervous, or overwhelmed, it proves helpful."

"And the tweed?" Magneto asked, because he was fairly certain Xavier was lying and wanted to call him on it. He was taken aback by the utter confusion that furrowed Xavier's brow.

"Tweed?"

"The tweed, and elbow patches, come to think of it," Magneto said, gesturing to Xavier's clothing. "Easy to underestimate a man who dresses like a grandfather."

And now Xavier looked insulted. He drew himself up, sitting straighter as he brushed the lapels of his jacket. Twin spots of colour flushed high on his cheeks. His bottom lipped waivered. For the first time in perhaps his life, Magneto found himself faltering, uncertain how to proceed. He was never uncertain.

"No?" he asked, hating the hesitancy in his voice.

Xavier sniffed, a pompous, arrogant sound that still somehow filled Magneto with guilt--another foreign emotion.

"What's wrong with tweed?" Xavier asked.

"Nothing," Magneto said. This conversation was clearly getting him nowhere. "It suits you," which was probably the wrong thing to say, judging from the way Xavier's eyes widened. It occurred to Magneto then that he was floundering, completely out of sorts, undone by this slight, incredibly vulnerable-looking man. "I don't suppose we can just skip this part of the conversation and get down to business."

For a moment Xavier looked disinclined to agree, but then he nodded slightly and relaxed back into his chair.

"You're here to ask me to join the Brotherhood," he said.

Magneto couldn't help it. His mouth fell open. Was it possible to have a conversation with this man without feeling gobsmacked? He was half convinced someone had been tampering with his helmet. There was really no other explanation. Before he could muster his wits, Xavier continued.

"And I'm afraid my answer is no," he said, and for a long time Magneto had no idea how to respond to that.


	3. Chapter 3

No was not an answer Magneto heard often, and when he did it only ever came from the Brotherhood's highest ranked mutants, and always with an explanation. And yet, here Xavier sat, features impassive, having refused an offer Magneto had yet to formally make, with no explanation in sight.

Maintaining the illusion of calm was a simple exercise, though inwardly, Magneto seethed.

When he was younger, no longer a boy, but not yet the man he was today, situations like these wreaked havoc on his control. There wasn't much metal in this room--the exception Xavier's chair--but there was enough to do considerable damage. It took little effort these days to ignore its siren call. Still, Magneto couldn't help but reach out and pull one of the crates to his side by its metal fastenings. He perched on the crate's edge, cape splayed out behind him.

"You haven't even heard my offer," he said. Xavier looked unperturbed. "I'm not asking you to join the Brotherhood, Professor..."

"Charles, please. Call me Charles," Charles interrupted. Magneto was not used to being interrupted.

"As I was saying, _Charles_ , I'm not asking you to join the Brotherhood. I'm asking you to lead it, to stand at my side."

There was no one else in the world to whom he would make such an offer. Magneto had known, long before this meeting--although this meeting had confirmed the thought--that he had but one equal; and that man was Charles Xavier. Even Mystique, as impressive as she was, would only ever remain his second in command.

Xavier--Charles, Magneto corrected-- looked nonplussed. His eyes were wide, lips parted, so startled by the offer that Magneto was unable to supress a surge of triumph from showing on his features. He smiled with too many teeth, knowing he looked manic, but not caring. Charles Xavier would take his rightful place by Magneto's side and together they would...

"Oh, my friend, I'm sorry, but I cannot."

Somehow, in the face of his excitement, Magneto had missed the minute shift in Charles' expression. His confusion had cleared, and now only abject horror stood out on his face. Magneto's smile faltered, then fell entirely, replaced by a scowl that was equal parts confusion and rage.

"Do you care to explain?" he asked, rather too abruptly.

"Erik, may I call you Erik?" Charles didn't wait for an answer, taking permission as granted. "I do not begrudge the Brotherhood their existence. They have done tremendous work in safeguarding mutantkind."

Magneto nodded, swelling with pride. For every laboratory they shut down, for every Weapons X program they dismantled, for every "school" they liberated, and for every politician and lobby group they replaced, mutantkind was made safer. He was creating utopia, one battle at a time, and the day would come when mutants no longer needed to fear humanity and all its many weaknesses. Surely Charles could see this.

"But I fear our ultimate goals do not align. You seek a world in which mutants ascend to supremacy. I seek a world in which mutants and humans coexist in harmony. Surely you can see the two are incompatible."

 _Only because coexistence is an impossible dream_ , Magneto thought. He let Charles' words settle between them and then stood, stepping forward until he loomed over Charles' chair. Once there, he leaned down, pressing into Charles' space, hands curling around the arms of Charles' chair.

"Might I remind you that it was you who wrote, and I quote, _like our Homo Sapiens cousins, who replaced Homo neanderthalensis as the planet's dominant population, so too will Homo superior ascend to supremacy_."

Charles' complexion turned pale, his eyes growing impossibly wide. It was a startling thing to see so close up.

"Oh, Erik. No. I meant in time, and by the slow process of evolution. Who are we to force nature's hand? We're certainly not gods."

 _Oh, but we are_ , Magneto wanted to say. Instead he smiled and offered, "So we are to sit idly by and allow Homo sapiens to destroy us, in their fear, to force evolution on their terms. Certainly if we are not gods, neither are they."

It occurred to him then that Charles' contrary stance should have infuriated him--this whole argument should have infuriated him, especially since he had modelled his life's philosophy on Charles' work. It did not. He couldn't remember the last time someone had openly disagreed with him; the last time someone had thought to argue with him. It was intoxicating. The thrill of it raced through his bloodstream, making him feel as though he stood in the heat of battle.

Charles' head was tilted back so as to not break eye contact. He was so close that Magneto could see the true shade of his eyes, flecks of lighter blues and greys interspersed with the brighter, clearer blue that gave them their colour. Magneto's helmet was reflected in the wide expanse of his blown pupils. He seemed so small, concealed beneath Magneto's bulk, and yet there was no fear in his gaze. If Magneto had to guess, he would say Charles shared his excitement.

"I admit, there are those who make it difficult, but any dream worth having is worth fighting for, don't you think?" Charles asked, the question voiced with such soft intimacy that Magneto had to strain to hear it. It brought him even further into Charles' space, the scent of sandalwood catching his nose.

"Exactly. Worth _fighting_ for," Magneto said at precisely the same moment a resounding crash sounded from the hall. Raised voices followed, along with a growl that Magneto identified as belonging to Charles' assistant.

Magneto pulled back, realizing then how dangerously close he'd been to climbing into Xavier's lap--and had he really been thinking of him as Charles this entire time? He had vowed not to underestimate the man, and yet had done exactly that. Apparently Xavier did not need his powers to practice the art of manipulation.

He shook his head to clear the fog, then strode to the door, throwing it open to find Hank McCoy pinned to the floor, Mystique's knee pressed to his throat. Magneto grinned.

"Problem?" he asked.

"You asked not to be disturbed. I tried telling Beast-man here that he should wait, but he took it as a suggestion. Just setting him straight," Mystique said, not taking her gaze from McCoy's face. His eyes were beginning to glaze, breath coming in shallow gasps. Magneto gave him thirty odd seconds before he succumbed to the lack of oxygen.

"Oh my God, release him!"

It was strange to watch Mystique jump to obey another person, even if Magneto could tell by her jerky movements that she was not in control of her body. God, the power Xavier wielded. Electric sparks of arousal spiked up Magneto's spine. Cautiously--and Magneto was never cautious--he moved aside to let Xavier wheel himself into the hall.

"Hank, are you all right?" Xavier asked, leaning forward in his chair to offer his hand. Across the hall, Mystique regained control of her body with a shudder. She looked utterly terrified.

"Fine, fine, just..." McCoy broke off in a coughing fit. A sly smile tugged at the corner of Mystique's upper lip. When his coughing subsided, McCoy offered her a brief scowl and then turned his attention back to Xavier. "They've finished the night's speeches and people are beginning to mingle. I wasn't sure if you wanted to..." He gestured absently.

"Oh, no. No, I don't think I do. Possibly I should, but..." It was the first time Magneto had seen Xavier truly flustered. He seemed horrified by the prospect of heading out to mingle with the crowd--strange given how much he seemed to relish their conversation. "Perhaps if you could fetch the car, we might return to Westchester."

Still rubbing his throat, McCoy looked startled. He glanced to Magneto, as though wanting to assign blame. Magneto returned his look levelly until McCoy looked away.

"Of course, if you'd like," he said to Xavier, though Magneto was almost certain it was not what he wanted to say. He wondered briefly if Xavier intended to return at some point--the Symposium went on for three days, and Westchester wasn't that far of a drive.

Magneto had no intention of remaining in New York, but he would be more than willing to reconsider his travel plans if it meant speaking to Xavier again--there had to be a way to convince him. Surely their views were not so very different. Surely they wanted the same thing.

"I... Yes, I suppose that would be for the best. Perhaps you could also find Warren and thank him for the invitation, and the opportunity," Xavier said, effectively dismissing McCoy, who nodded and left through the stage-side door. He gave Mystique a wide berth as he passed her.

"You're not staying for rest of the proceedings, then," Magneto said once they were alone, Mystique fading into the background, giving them as much space as the short hall would allow.

Xavier seemed startled by the suggestion, or perhaps he had simply expected Magneto and Mystique to leave now that their conversation had been effectively derailed.

"No, it's best I get back." Xavier hesitated. "And to be honest, I don't particularly enjoy crowds these days. Too many minds; it's hard to shield myself from them all. I'm afraid I'm woefully out of practice."

"Is that why you hide away in your mansion?"

It was the wrong thing to say, again. Xavier froze, his entire body growing taut. His features shifted into a look so fierce--eyes flashing, jaw clenching--that Magneto actually took a step back before remembering himself. The expression vanished a second later, Xavier's features shifting back to neutrality. Had Mystique not appeared at his side, all coiled tension and vibrating energy, Magneto might have thought he'd imagined the look.

"I must thank you for our discussion. It has been a long time since I engaged in such a lively debate. If you are inclined to continue it, well, I suppose you know where to find me," Xavier said, tone light, casual, as though nothing had transpired between them. It was impossible to tell if he was issuing an invitation, or just being polite.

Magneto inclined his head and then, as an after-thought, withdrew one of his cards and offered it over.

"My card, if you change your mind," he said.

Turning his back on Xavier was a difficult thing, though Magneto couldn't say if it was because he was loath to leave the man's company, or if it was simply a by-product of a lifetime spent thinking in tactics and strategies. He was a long way away before the tension knotted between his shoulder blades loosened, and even then the bitter aftertaste of failure lingered in his mouth.

~*~

Charles passed the drive back to Westchester idly fingering Erik's card. He was expecting something a little more ostentatious; not this modest slip of white, embossed with a single, stylized _M_ , neat telephone number printed below.

The entire night had left him overwrought; he was exhausted, worn-thin, as though he had been soaked through, then stretched in too many direction and left to dry in the sun. He could no longer remember having given a speech, but oh how he remembered every microsecond of his conversation with Erik. Magneto, the master of magnetism, and as magnetic in person as Charles had always expected he would be. He couldn't remember the last time he'd felt so thoroughly alive.

And understandable occurrence, he assured himself, given the dearth of companionship these last ten years had brought. Oh, there was Hank, who was absolutely essential to Charles' survival--more so than Charles' personal nurse, who saw to the more gritty details of Charles' paralysis--but Hank had his own interests, and those were often solitary. There were visitors, here and there, though not as many as had graced the mansion when Moria still lived. In truth, most of Charles' time was spent alone. It was no wonder meeting Erik was akin to being struck by a thunderbolt. He was in want of companionship; in want of conversation, and Erik had provided both in spades.

He told himself this firmly, but it did little to quiet the nagging part of his brain that said otherwise. He could still feel the heat of Erik's body, radiating against his chest, warming him in a way he hadn't been warmed in far, far too long. It was not something he thought of often. He wanted to blame his disinterest in sex on Moria's death, but the truth was he had yet to reconcile his new self--his paralysed self--as a sexual being. In the months following the accident, he had been too busy grieving to give it any thought, and by the time that pain had settled, ignoring the issue had simply become habit.

"Stupid," Charles muttered to himself; of all the things to be thinking about. Perhaps he could take it as a sign that it was time to move on. He had made an important first step, after all; had left the security of his home. Perhaps enough time had finally passed for him to start living again. Perhaps he should have done so years ago.

He glanced back down at Erik's card and thought he should discard it. He had no intention of changing his mind--his beliefs would never align with those of the Brotherhood. Instead he found himself tucking the card neatly into the breast pocket of his tweed jacket, smiling slightly as he did so.


	4. Chapter 4

The briefing room was filled to capacity. Shutting down Stryker's latest project was going to require tremendous manpower. Casting a brief glance around the room, it was clear Mystique had recruited the best.

They'd only been back a few days, but Mystique, never one to sit idle, had immediately taken control of the project she'd been forced to abandon during their trip to New York. She was giving her day-before-the-mission speech now, making sure everyone knew their roles. Mystique wasn't one to leave things to chance, and with Stryker's latest weapon deemed an extreme threat, she was being extra vigilant.

Magneto had always enjoyed watching her work, whether on the field or standing at the head of a room. She wore command like she was born for it. The men and women in the room listened with rapt attention. Even those who hadn't followed her into battle knew her by reputation. They might have feared and respected Magneto, but they admired and respected Mystique. It was one of the reasons they made such a good team.

Today, though, Mystique couldn't hold Magneto's attention. He was only vaguely aware of the hard, confident cadence of her words. Instead he found his attention drifting out the window, his gaze lighting on azure water where it lapped at pristine white sand. It was not the first time the view had captivated. It was so different from the greys and browns of his youth that, living here, Magneto often wondered if he had strayed into a dream.

It occurred to him then that the leaves would be changing in New York right now. The trees had held the first flush of colour when Magneto was there. By now the forests of upstate New York would be awash in brilliant reds and oranges. It was something he missed, living on this island; the changing of seasons that had once marked the passing of his childhood.

"I want you off this mission."

Magneto started when Mystique appeared at his side. He hadn't noticed her approach. He turned, furious that she would dare tell him his place. He was not hers to command. A snide remark died on his tongue when he realized the room was empty. She had dismissed the other mutants and he had missed it.

"Erik." It was Raven who stared up at him now, something he thought might be sympathy reflected in her gaze. "In the ten years we've known each other, I've never seen you like this. You're moping, completely lost in thought," she said.

Magneto opened his mouth to argue, to disagree, but Raven pressed forward, denying him the chance.

"If we're going to go after this Wolverine creature, I need everyone--and I mean everyone--on their game. I don't think I need to tell you that you've been distracted since we got back."

And what could he possibly say to that? It was true, however much he might not want to admit it. Xavier was one man, and hardly the first to refuse membership in the Brotherhood, but for some reason Magneto couldn't shake his disappointment.

"I'm fine," he finally said, shaking himself. It was well past time he put Xavier from his mind. "Besides, if those medical reports you collected are accurate, then Stryker's infused this guy's skeletal structure with adamantium, and that means you're going to need someone capable of manipulating metal."

The shift from Raven to Mystique was subtle, but Magneto didn't miss it. She drew herself up, spine straightening, eyes narrowing even as her expression hardened.

"I think we can manage him."

Magneto doubted that. From all reports they had read, Wolverine was the pinnacle of the Weapons X program, a weapon programmed for the exclusive purpose of killing other mutants. He had to be stopped, and if they could find a way to restrain him, to undo his programming, then he would make an excellent addition to the Brotherhood's fighting forces.

"Start your prep work, and don't worry about me. And that's an order, Mystique," Magneto said. This was just another recruiting mission, and if they happened to destroy Stryker's latest research lab in the process, all the better. It was nothing Magneto couldn't handle.

The ironic part, he thought as Mystique stalked from the room, was that Charles Xavier probably could have recruited this Wolverine without ever leaving the comfort of his home. He probably wouldn't have broken a sweat. Hell, he was probably capable of convincing Stryker to destroy his own work and then take up tap-dancing as a full time career. Damn the man for his naivety.

~*~

Charles sat, hands folded neatly across his lap, chair parked beneath the wide oak that framed the border between the gravel walk surrounding the house and the wide expanse of lawn that ran to the lake. It was unseasonably warm for the time of year, but he remained cloaked in an oversized sweater and loose-knit blanket. Warm afternoon sun had left his neck damp with sweat. Wheeling across the gravel was a strain he sought daily.

And here he was again, three days home from New York and already falling into old habits. He had felt so certain the trip would prove a turning point, but then he'd slept and upon waking had found himself reluctant to move towards any sort of change.

When he was younger, change couldn't happen fast enough. He'd left for university years before his peers, and was a year into his undergraduate studies when he began researching graduate schools. His time at Oxford was spent in a mad rush to get his PhD done and over with, so that he could move on to the next stage of his life. He was always rushing towards the next corner, always moving a little too fast, still trying to escape the ghosts of his childhood, certain he could outrun them as an adult.

Strange now that he had his own ghost, he had stopped running.

"Well you're not going to accomplish anything sitting here," he told himself.

It was a mark of his sedentary lifestyle that he was winded by the time he got back inside. He rode the lift down to Hank's laboratory and found Hank bent over a microscope--where he always was when Charles went looking for him. Charles cleared his throat. Hank glanced up, startled.

"Charles. Apologies, did you need something. I had thought you intended to read this afternoon." Hank's thoughts were a tangle of guilt and embarrassment. Charles waved off his concern.

"I did, but I've changed my mind. I thought I'd go into town instead, perhaps stop in at the pub and have a drink."

Hank's eyes grew wide and he straightened abruptly, tidying his papers, his whole countenance flustered.

"Of course, of course we can. I'll only be a minute. I was working on..." Charles did not need to hear Hank's thoughts to know that he was loath to leave in the middle of an experiment. It was a measure of their friendship, not to mention Hank's concern for Charles' welfare that he was willing to alter his plans, accompany Charles when it was painfully obvious he wanted to remain.

"You needn't trouble yourself, Hank. I can ask Mr. Thompson to drive me into town. I'm sure he would jump at the chance to visit his daughter."

Hank looked over sharply at that, hesitation creeping into his thoughts. He stood, papers forgotten in his hands as he blinked owlishly in Charles' direction.

"The groundskeeper?" he asked.

"Yes. He was just telling me the other day that he only finds the time for weekly visits. His daughter has a newborn, you see, and he is a fiercely proud grandfather. I can't count the number of times he has taken me aside to show me polaroids of the boy. I rather think he would relish the chance for an impromptu visit."

It was not that he didn't want Hank's company--he would have been perfectly happy having Hank accompany him into town--but he needed to do this on his own, without the crutch of having someone at his side.

Hank still seemed hesitant, but Charles had already blanketed his worry. He glanced at the papers in his hands, seeming surprised to find he still held them, and then placed them back on the workbench.

"If you're certain," he said. Charles nodded.

It took little work to convince Mr. Thompson to take a trip into town. A simple nudge against the worry that his daughter would be too busy to receive him had made him eager to go. He seemed delighted, too, that his Professor Xavier was leaving the house, and chatted amicably the entire trip. Charles had Thompson drop him off outside Harry's Hideaway, a place he hadn't set foot in since shortly after his and Moira's wedding. Seeing the place, unchanged after all these long years, sparked a wave of nostalgia so strong that Charles thought he might choke on it. Instead he waved Thompson goodbye and wheeled himself up to the front door.

There were steps--of course there were steps, how could he have forgotten--just inside the door, leading down into the bar, but Charles was able to roll down them, his chair precariously balanced as he did. Getting up would prove more difficult, but Thompson was close enough that Charles could nudge his mind into coming looking for Charles when the time came. He'd worry about that later.

It was early in the day, the sun not yet set, but already there were a scattering of patrons, some sitting in a ring around the bar, others in booths around the outskirts of the room. A pair of couples, too young to be here legally, played pool on the table in the back. Charles felt his chest constrict, his breathing going shallow as he surveyed the room. For as infrequently as they had come here, the place held too many memories.

He chose a table near the bar, pushing aside one of the chairs to make room for his own. And now he wished he had accepted Hank's offer. In his youth, he simply would have mingled with the crowd, floating from one person to the next, drink in hand, wide smile and terrible pickup lines thrown at men and women alike. He was struck by how long ago that seemed now, when this morning it had only seemed like yesterday.

Not sure what else to do, Charles floated a thought to a passing waitress. She turned abruptly, midstride, and approached his table. He ordered a beer, because it seemed like the thing to order, narrowing his eyes as she walked away, trying to decide if the sway of her hips was seductive or merely awkward. By the time she had returned, he had settled on awkward. The beer she brought was too warm to fully appreciate, but Charles drank it all the same.

And then another, and another. Four beers in he was feeling a little less self-conscious and a lot more at ease in the surroundings--not to mention the alcohol had created a fuzzy barrier between his mind and a room full of tipsy thoughts. It was happy hour, now, or so his waitress had proclaimed, ringing a small bell above the bar's register. Business had steadily picked up, and now the place was filled to half capacity. Charles had engaged in three separate conversations, none of them particularly interesting, none of them holding his attention for long, but they still counted as conversations, so Charles was feeling particularly chuffed. Enough so that when his waitress returned with his fifth drink--this time a neat scotch--he manoeuvered himself away from the table and out into the crowd.

On his second circuit of the room, he caught the eye of a woman sitting on her own, her friend having abandoned her in favour of flirting with one of the bartenders. He wheeled up next to her, having to crane his neck to meet her eye, perched as she was on her barstool.

"I'd offer to buy you a drink," he said, "but since the one in your hand is fresh, I'm afraid I'll have to simply settle for saying hello. Not as glamorous as guessing your cocktail, but hopefully I gain some points for earnestness."

As soon as the words left his mouth he cringed. He was woefully out of practice on more than just blocking thoughts. Still, it couldn't have been that bad, because the girl smiled, held up her drink, and then pointed back to his table. This was easier than he remembered--certainly easier than he'd expected, the slight twinge of senseless guilt that flared in his stomach notwithstanding. He pushed the thought aside, banishing Moria to a corner of his mind and headed steadily back to his, thankfully, still empty table.

The girl--and he realized now that they were away from the dark glittering of the bar that he had at least a dozen or so years on her--slid into one of the unoccupied chairs and offered her hand.

"I'm Gabrielle," she said, still smiling.

"Charles," Charles answered, feeling oddly giddy. The sensation lasted little more than a minute, chased away by an errant thought--not his own.

He had encountered pity before--numerous times--but never quite like this. In the split second their hands touched, he had forgotten himself, had let his mind brush against hers. The thought blared with as much clarity as if she'd shouted the thing. She was more than willing to go home with him, to fall into bed with him, to have sex with him, but only because she had a heart of gold and suspected he spent most of his nights alone. That she was right didn't matter. What mattered was the desire for charity, when Charles was only looking for desire.

"So," Gabrielle said, "were you in the war?" And that... that just made everything worse. Charles laughed, an ugly, bitter sound.

"No, nothing like that. A car accident, unfortunately. And I'm sorry, I'm terribly sorry, but I've just realized my ride is waiting for me." There were days when Charles cursed his telepathy, but this was not one of them. Were he an ordinary man, he would have taken Gabrielle home, taken her to bed, and never known her true motivations. At least now he would be spared the humiliation.

He'd already sent out the stray thought and knew Thompson was making his goodbyes, would be there to pick Charles up within the half hour. Gabrielle looked startled, hurt even, but a slight nudge sent her back to her friend--who had struck out with the bartender and was now nursing her drink alone.

Half an hour was too long to wait in the humidity of this place, the scent of human sweat growing with the fading light. Charles eyed the stairs warily and then resigned himself to asking for help. He found a burly looking man standing in the shadows not far from the door, but when Charles tried to touch his mind he was met with resistance. It was nothing he couldn't have countered, but the mere fact that someone could keep him out, however temporarily, was exciting enough that Charles withdrew, respecting the man's wishes.

"I beg your pardon," he said aloud instead. The man glanced down at Charles' chair, then over to the steps. He grunted something that sounded like affirmation and then stubbed out his cigar on the wall behind him.

"Oh," Charles said, startled when the man simply lifted him, chair and all, and carried him up the stairs and through the door. As soon as the man had settled him on the ground, Charles turned to get a good look at the man, intent on asking after his mutation--because it was clear the man was a mutant--but the man was obviously uninterested in conversation, already heading back into the bar.

Charles let him go. He breathed deep the cool chill of the night air. The temperature had dropped during his time inside. His breath left icy tendrils in its wake.

And this was not how he imagined his evening ending. He glanced down the road, hoping to spot Thompson's car, but it remained stubbornly empty. With a frustrated sigh, Charles rolled forward, gaze catching the glint of a payphone out of the corner of his eye. He stopped and blinked at it stupidly.

Unbidden, his hand came up to his breast pocket, fingers tracing the outline of the card he still carried. He pulled it out, glanced down at the stylized _M_ and then back up at the payphone.

~*~

He always woke too early the morning of a mission. It was an old habit, held over from before he had minions to do his bidding. There was no reason to be up at this ungodly hour, but Magneto had long since given up trying to retrain his body.

He sat, alone in his office, steaming cup of coffee on the table before him. It would be hours before Mystique joined him; hours more before they were set to leave. Magneto scowled and then took a sip of his coffee, willing time forward.

The telephone on his desk rang.

It was a startling sound, especially given how infrequently the damned thing actually rang. Magneto let his hand hover over the receiver, hesitating until it rang a second time. A smile crept across his features.

"There are only three people in the world who have this number, and two of those people are in the same building. That means you, Charles Xavier, have changed your mind."

The line crackled with static, the connection poor, but Magneto was too pleased to feel annoyance. The last thing he was expecting was a woman's voice to fill the line.

"This is the operator. Will you accept a collect call from a Charles Xavier, in North Salem, New York?"

For a moment Magneto didn't know what to say. That Charles would call him collect, of all things, hadn't crossed his mind. Would their every interaction leave him feeling flummoxed? Magneto was beginning to suspect this was all part of Xavier's nefarious plan to drive him insane. Perhaps this was part of some bid to oust Magneto from the Brotherhood, for Charles to secure the reins of power for himself.

"I'll accept the charges," Magneto answered reluctantly. Damn Xavier for unsettling him so.

"Um, hello?" Charles' voice echoed over the line. Try as he might to cling to it, Magneto's annoyance vanished.

"You called me collect, Charles," Magneto said, startling to realize that he had used Xavier's given name. He had vowed not to fall into that trap a second time.

"My apologies, but I'm at a payphone, and I didn't have enough change."

Magneto wanted to ask why Xavier was calling from a payphone and not one of the many telephones he was certain filled Xavier's estate. He refrained, saying instead, "But you have changed your mind."

The long pause that followed told Magneto that he'd gotten it wrong again. He was starting to think he was destined to spend the remainder of his life floundering in Xavier's wake. It grated as much as it thrilled.

"I'm sorry. I'm really sorry. Oh, of course you would think that, but no, that wasn't why... Actually, I'm not really certain why I'm calling, except, perhaps..." Xavier trailed off, the line falling silent once again.

"Perhaps?" Magneto pressed. Xavier cleared his throat.

"I was wondering if you happened to play chess?" he asked.


	5. Chapter 5

Magneto was well aware that he was gaping like a fish. He was glad there was no one awake to see it--glad too that Xavier's telepathy couldn't reach him here while his helmet sat on the bureau by his office door. His brain short-circuited for several minutes before he managed, "Chess?"

"Yes, it's a game where two opponents..."

"I know what chess is." Talking to Charles--and there he went again, calling him Charles--was exasperating, and yet Magneto had no desire to hang up. Rather, he sank further back into his chair, letting out a small huff of a laugh that was no doubt lost to the connection's static.

"Ah, do you play then?" Charles sounded quite serious. He also sounded slightly off, not quite as polished as he had the last time they'd spoken, an underlying slur to his words that Magneto couldn't quite place.

"I play," he said. "Well, in fact."

Chess was a game of strategy, a game of tactics, and he was both strategist and tactician; of course he played.

"Oh, how wonderful," Charles said, sounding delighted. Magneto's brain caught up with the conversation.

"Are you drunk?" he asked.

There was a long minute of silence, as Charles--and damn it, when had he stopped thinking of him as Xavier?--considered the question.

"I'm not sure. Certainly I was, and probably I still am, but I feel quite sober, not that I should ever trust myself to judge," Charles answered. He sounded pensive.

The statement called to mind a conversation Magneto had had with Mystique, on their flight back to Genosha, shortly after meeting Charles. He'd asked her to share everything she knew about the man. She'd told him the same story she had before, about Charles' wife who had died in the same crash that took Charles' legs, only this time she'd added what little she knew of the court case that followed. She wasn't certain, but she thought Xavier had received a suspended sentence on charges of vehicular manslaughter and driving under the influence.

Magneto didn't think Charles would appreciate him bringing it up, so he didn't ask.

The silence must have stretched on for longer than Charles was comfortable, because he cleared his throat, humming slightly in a way that suggested he was beginning to feel awkward. Magneto grinned, feeling the thrill of retribution; oh how he loved that the tables had turned.

"So chess. I'm assuming you're issuing a challenge," Magneto said.

Charles barked a laugh. Magneto hated how it warmed him.

"Yes, yes I suppose I am. If you're interested," he said.

There was still the problem of location. Charles was in New York and Magneto was half a world away. Fortunately Magneto had a tidy little solution to that problem.

"I have business in the States today," and technically that wasn't true, but the remote wilds of northern Canada and the rolling forests of Westchester weren't that far removed, not comparatively. He'd simply have Mystique drop him off in New York on the way home, where he could schedule a commercial flight back to Genosha.

"Today?" Charles asked, sounding confused. "No, sorry, don't clarify. Oh, God, what time is it there? I didn't even think, I just..."

"It's all right. You didn't wake me if that's what you're worrying about." He thought perhaps he should get Charles drunk every time they spoke. It took him decidedly off his game. It was nice to come out on top for once. Magneto revelled in it.

"So tomorrow, then," Charles said.

"No, I'll need a day, possibly two. How is Saturday, eight pm, your time?" It occurred to him then that he had no idea what he was doing. Did he really still hope to lure Charles to his side, or was it simply the man's company he craved. Certainly he wanted to see Charles--had thought of him often since their last meeting--but there was something decidedly reckless in delaying his return simply to play chess with the man.

"Saturday is perfect. Would you like to come here, or should we arrange to meet?" In the background, Magneto thought he heard the roar of a car's engine. It fell silent a minute later.

"I'll come to you," Magneto said, wanting now to see the infamous Xavier estate.

"Excellent. I suppose I'll see you then," Charles said. He didn't wait for a respond, making a hasty goodbye, even as he apologized for not being able to talk longer. Magneto replaced the receiver with a soft click and then stared at the telephone as if expecting it to ring again. It didn't. It struck him then that for as much as Charles had been off his game, he was the one left reeling. He couldn't for the life of him trace the conversation back far enough to figure out how it had ended in him agreeing to travel to New York, to play chess. He was starting to think he had underestimated Charles' powers.

Then again, it was entirely possible he had underestimated himself.

~*~

Charles stared at the receiver where it hung in its cradle, not quite believing what he had just done--not quite believing that Erik had agreed to come. Behind him, Mr. Thompson cleared his throat, the sound jarring enough that it pulled Charles from his reverie.

"Apologies," he said, turning and wheeling himself towards the car.

The drive back seemed to take an eternity. Thompson rambled on about his grandson, pride and nostalgia colouring his thoughts. Charles let himself get lost in the soothing tones of it, even as his mind drifted. He and Moria had discussed having children; an entire house full, but Charles had never really committed himself to the idea. It was one of the things they'd fought about--that and Charles' work; the never-ending intrusion of it. For someone who had shared Charles' field of study, she was nowhere near as passionate about it as Charles. He'd wondered often if his own mutation, his need to understand his origins, had made the difference.

Or perhaps they'd never been truly suited to one another.

It was startling, how quickly his mood shifted. The space of a drive and he felt his earlier energy sap, leaving him feeling listless and resigned. Only the promise of Erik's visit kept him from wanting to crawl into bed and never escape. It was nice to have something to look forward to.

Hank was waiting when he got home, likely watching out the window, because as soon as they pulled into the lane he was out the door and striding towards the car. He retrieved Charles' chair, despite Thompson's protests and set it next to Charles' door, holding it steady while Charles transferred himself from the car into its leather seat.

His thoughts were panicked; then disappointed when he registered Charles' inebriated state.

"Whatever is the matter?" Charles asked, but Hank schooled his thoughts to artificial calm.

"I had expected you back sooner," he said, "but it's no matter. Did you have a nice time?"

"Yes, quite nice," Charles lied.

There was little more conversation after that, Hank wheeling Charles to his room, even though Charles was more than capable of taking himself. Sometimes Hank hovered over him like a mother hen. Charles permitted it, but only because it provided Hank with a sense of reassuring comfort.

"I have a guest coming to visit on Saturday. I'm not sure if he'll have eaten, so perhaps you could arrange with Mrs. Forrester for a late supper," Charles said when they arrived at their destination. Charles' chair lurched briefly as Hank hesitated, mid step.

"Of course," he said, though Charles could tell, even without the benefit of telepathy, that he was surprised.

Charles didn't blame him. He couldn't remember the last time he'd invited anyone to the mansion. Certainly it had been years. There was an undercurrent of happiness to Hank's thoughts, and Charles could tell he was pleased by the development. It was probably unwise, but Charles refrained from mentioning just who he had invited to the house.

~*~

Magneto waited until they were on the last leg of their journey to tell Mystique of his altered travel arrangements. She glared at him, and then motioned for Destiny to take control of the jet. Magneto followed her reluctantly to the back of the plane. He had known this would happen, and he hated losing focus before a mission. He should have waited until after, but he suspected she would have killed him outright if he had.

"What's in New York?" she asked once they were strapped into the long, low bench that lined the fuselage.

"Nothing. I just have some personal business to take care of," Magneto answered.

"Personal business? Since when do you have personal business?" A fair question. It was only a matter of time before she put two and two together; Mystique knew him well. Magneto waited. "You're kidding me. Xavier?" she finally said, eyes growing wide with shock.

"I'll be a couple of days behind," Magneto said, not bothering to verify her assumption--there was no need. "You can run the debriefing and secure the Wolverine. I'll tie up any loose ends once I get back."

Mystique looked incredulous. It wasn't like him to bail on a mission before it saw completion. He had made it a point of honour to see every mission from start to finish; had been unrelenting on the subject. He told himself that this was different; that this time he wasn't needed. Deprogramming the Wolverine required Emma's talents, not his, and Mystique was more than capable of getting him back to her, and then running the debriefing. In fact there was very little that would be required of him.

He was starting to wonder if Mystique was right, if he should have sat the entire mission out.

"What is this, Erik?" It was Raven who asked the question, under her breath that so that the rest of the team wouldn't overhear. Magneto still scowled, giving her a hard look for her insolence.

" _This_ ", he answered, "is none of your business."

She wanted to argue, Eric could tell by the defiant expression that crossed her features, but then Destiny announced their arrival, the jet bucking sharply as it sank towards the earth, and Raven was once again forced to assume the role of Mystique. Magneto remained seated, feeling oddly relieved when Mystique released her straps, stood and headed towards the front of the plane. Ten minutes later they were landing. When next he saw Mystique, she was all business.

"Something's not right," she said, following him off the jet, body coiled tight with tension.

"Yes, I was expecting a reception," Magneto said. Instead there was no one, the entire site devoid of life.

It left him feeling twitchy, all his focused energy going to waste. He realized then that he'd been looking for a fight--hoping for one--but more than that, he had been expecting one. To find nothing was unsettling.

"The base is underground; perhaps they don't monitor the surface." Having secured the jet, Destiny had followed them outside. She sounded vexed. Magneto knew her irritation stemmed from her inability to see today's outcome. Whatever had blocked Emma's telepathy from breaching the base was also blocking Destiny's foresight.

"I don't like it," Magneto said, but it wouldn't be the first time he'd gone somewhere his instincts had told him not to. He tried not to think about the reasons for his eagerness, wanting to believe they had everything to do with shutting Stryker down, and nothing to do with getting safely to New York. "You two see if you can find a back way in. Take Pyro and Storm with you. I'll take Riptide and go in through the front."

The front was little more than a culvert through the dam, easily overlooked had Mystique not secured the base's blueprints. Steel doors stood barrier, but they were little match for Magneto's power. A flick of his wrist sent them imploding inwards. Inside, he wasn't sure what he was expecting, but this wasn't it. In place of soldiers and resistance, they found nothing. Magneto wanted to strike something. Power surged through his blood, the taste of copper heavy on his tongue. He remained tense and ready for a fight as they wound their way through deserted corridors. The air was stale; the darkness far-reaching. They found nothing. The base had been abandoned.

The only signs of life they encountered were rats and the occasional scurry of insects. They had reached what appeared to be a control room when Mystique appeared with the others in tow. She shook her head when Magneto glanced questioningly in her direction. Whatever had happened here, they were too late.

"Did they get word we were coming?" Magneto asked. Mystique shrugged, but Destiny shook her head.

"There's a room, beyond my sight, but it is there we will find the answers," she said.

Magneto gestured for her to lead the way, Destiny following the path as it unfolded in her mind's eye. She led them to another set of doors, these designed with bolts that ran from the steel into the rock of the earth. Pulling them out would have brought the ceiling down around them, so Magneto took the time to release the locks, the process slow and aggravating.

Eventually the door opened and they were inside. Unlike the rest of the base, which looked as if its occupants had simply wandered away, the inside of this room was chaos. It had obviously been a laboratory of some sort and was filled with medical equipment, examination tables, medical machines and a series of tanks.

The sight of it was enough to trigger a flashback--not unusual, even after all these years--Magneto temporarily transported back to his childhood, tension coiling in his chest until he could no longer breathe. Outwardly, he appeared only contemplative, but Mystique, who knew him well, immediately appeared at his side, placing a steadying hand on his wrist. The images shattered, metal scalpels and leather restraints giving way to the present even as the tension in his chest eased and his breathing grew regular. He shot Mystique a grateful look and reminded himself that that was a long time ago, that he was no longer that boy.

Whoever had been in this room had destroyed it before leaving. Long gouges, spaced four apart, the size of a large man's hand, were carved into walls and equipment alike. The floor was stained with blood, though there were no bodies that Magneto could see--and certainly he would not have missed the stench of rotting flesh, a smell he was intimately familiar with.

"I want to know what happened," Magneto ordered. His team sprang into action, eager to be doing something, still keyed up and ready for battle, disappointed that they hadn't found one. Magneto knew how they felt.

It took some time, most of the records purged, the base carefully swept clean of incriminating evidence, but eventually they pieced together enough to know that subject x--and Magneto had no doubt they were talking about the Wolverine--was responsible for the surrounding destruction.

"Do they still have him, or did he escape?" That was the question Magneto wanted answered, though either way it meant danger for them. The Wolverine was a weapon, designed exclusively for the purpose of assassinating mutants, and whether on his own or in the hands of Stryker, he was still a threat. Magneto didn't like the prospect of being hunted.

And damn it, this was not how this was supposed to go. He was supposed to be on his way to New York right now, secure in the knowledge that Mystique was taking the Wolverine back to Genosha, that come morning Emma would be in the process of breaking through Stryker's programming, turning the Wolverine to their side. There was no possible way he could justify breaking off his search, even if only for the duration of a chess match.

And wasn't it ridiculous that that was his greatest concern.

"Either way we're screwed," Mystique said, answering Magneto's question. "It took us months to uncover this operation. If they have him, it'll take twice as long to find him a second time. If he's on his own... he could be anywhere."

Magneto snarled. Mystique was right. Across the room, a metal examination table vibrated sharply. Mystique's eyes grew wide, having never before seen Magneto lose control. Magneto released a breath through clenched teeth and the table settled.

"We'll start with the usual channels. And put out a word that we're offering sanctuary. If he did this and managed to escape, it could be that he's running from Stryker's men." It was a small hope, but one he clung to nonetheless. His life would be made so much easier if Wolverine was made to come to them.

He was expecting Mystique to spring into action, but instead she merely stared at him, thoughtful expression on her face. Magneto frowned, wondering what he'd missed.

"You know, there might be another way," she eventually said. Magneto motioned for her to continue. "Xavier. You have scheduled a date with him, haven't you?"

"It's not a date," Magneto said, too fast--far too fast. "He wants to play chess," he amended lamely, not quite certain why he felt the need to share that bit of information.

"Date, romantic chess tournament; I don't care. The point is you seem to like this guy, and for reasons I can't fathom, he seems to like you. He's also in possession of a machine capable of extending his telepathy to every corner of the globe, more or less, and that means..."

"He can find the Wolverine," Magneto finished. It hadn't occurred to him to ask for Charles' help, but now that he thought of it, Cerebro was exactly the tool they needed. Months of searching compressed to hours--it was almost too good to be true. And Charles would help, because even though their ideologies didn't exactly align, he would still see a fellow mutant in need of help.

A small part of Magneto's brain whispered excitedly that it also meant not having to break off his date--chess match, he thought fiercely--with Charles, something he didn't want to do.

"Exactly," Mystique said, smiling brightly.

"Then I guess we should get me to New York."


	6. Chapter 6

For the longest time, Magneto stood outside Xavier's door, uncharacteristically hesitant. There was something about the front entranceway--wide oak doors that undoubtedly dated back to the house's construction--that gave him pause. Magneto tutted, chastised himself, and then brought his hand up to knock.

It was Charles who answered the door, greeting Magneto warmly despite the disapproving frown he shot Magneto's helmet. He welcomed Magneto into his home as an old friend instead of a tentative acquaintance. It was strange being shown such absolute trust so early into a relationship. Magneto wasn't sure how to interpret the gesture.

"How was your business?" Charles asked as soon as Magneto was through the front door. He seemed uncommonly nervous, yet still poised and confident.

"Disappointing," Magneto answered, though he didn't elaborate. He had no intention of broaching the subject yet--in part because he thought Charles would be more receptive as the evening wore on, but if he was honest with himself, it was also because he wanted time to enjoy Charles' company without being overshadowed by work.

"I'm sorry to hear that," Charles said, and Magneto could tell that he genuinely was.

Magneto shrugged, dismissing the topic before it could get away from them. Charles seemed more than happy to let it drop, leading Magneto further into the house. The Xavier estate was everything Magneto imagined it would be--displays of wealth as prominent as they were understated, as though Charles' ancestors had wanted visitors to know the importance of their name, while they simultaneously wanted to divert attention away from their financial superiority. Charles led them through wide corridors and halls, where dark wood panelling stretched between sculpted plaster ceilings and polished marble floors. The house was well furnished, but curiously devoid of decorative artifacts.

"Have you eaten?" Charles asked, glancing over his shoulder. He had been wheeling himself steadily forward, but now he slowed, coming to a stop where two halls intersected.

"I haven't," Magneto said, realizing that it had been some time since he'd last eaten. His arrival in New York had been so rushed that he'd barely had enough time to appropriate a car to take him to Westchester, let alone worry about necessities like food. His search of Stryker's abandoned base had taken longer than he would have liked.

"I had my housekeeper prepare a small supper, if you'd like." Charles sounded uncertain, and yet hopeful. Magneto watched, transfixed, as Charles took his lower lip between his teeth and chewed it awkwardly.

"Dinner would be good," Magneto said, watching Charles' features light up. Something in his chest lurched uncomfortably at the sight.

He was expecting Charles to lead him to a formal dining room--from what he'd seen of the house so far, it seemed likely the place had at least one such room--but instead Charles led him into a small, warmly lit kitchen, where a small wooden table sat beneath the room's only window. It was set for two, the china plain and well used. The rich scent of tomato and cheese assaulted Magneto's senses and set his stomach rumbling.

"I hope this is all right," Charles said, perhaps sensing Magneto's surprise.

"It's fine," Magneto said, which seemed to be enough of an assurance to start Charles moving again. He wheeled himself about the kitchen, extremely comfortable in the small space, and it struck Magneto then that a man who undoubtedly ate most of his meals alone or with servants probably preferred eating in the kitchen to eating in a dining hall.

He watched Charles retrieve a bottle of wine from a rack beside the fridge, holding it up for Magneto's approval and then setting it on the table. Next he moved to the oven, sliding it open to retrieve a ceramic dish with gloved hands.

"Mrs. Forrester makes excellent cannelloni," he said. He set the dish on top of the oven and closed the door. "Though I'm afraid you'll have to serve," he continued with a self-deprecating chuckle. Magneto was momentarily struck by the domesticity of the situation. He couldn't remember the last time he had simply enjoyed a meal with another person. In the years since his mother's murder, he suspected he hadn't.

"I don't mind," Magneto said, retrieving their plates while Charles busied himself opening the wine.

It turned out Mrs. Forrester did make excellent cannelloni, but it was not the food--nor the wine, despite it being an excellent vintage--that kept Magneto's attention. Charles was on top of his game, chatting amicably on a number of subjects, always keeping one step ahead, delighting Magneto as often as he bewildered him. This was the self-assured man he had met at the Symposium, not the man who had called him in the middle of the night to invite him to play chess. Magneto took care to fill Charles' wine glass often.

"It's fascinating in terms of evolutionary progression, knowing that it's the male who carries the mutant X gene. Males, of course, are better suited to wide-spread genetic distribution, because they can impregnate a number of females simultaneously, whereas females can only carry one genetic sample per pregnancy," Charles said. "It implies the mutant X gene should move faster through the population than it would if it passed on the maternal side."

And of course Charles saw the supremacy of Homo superior spreading through sex rather than securing its place through war.

"So you're suggesting we should begin rounding up human females, perhaps institute a breeding program in order to increase the mutant population?" Magneto asked. Charles paled.

"Oh, dear God, no. Why would you even think..."

Magneto smirked, thrilled to see the wine was finally doing its job.

"Oh, you're having me on. You horrible, horrible man," Charles said, but he was smiling as he said it, seeming well pleased by the turn of events.

Magneto tipped his head, but the smile never left his face, even as he leaned back in his chair and took another sip of his wine.

"You have to confess, it is an argument in favour of coexistence. We're looking at three, maybe four generations before Homo superior replaces Homo sapiens. If, before that happens, Homo sapiens were to disappear entirely, I very much doubt that Homo superior would have the necessary genetic diversity for continued survival. The propagation of our species depends on the health and wellbeing of theirs."

It was an argument Magneto had heard before, one he usually countered with quotes from Charles' other works. The man, it seemed, was a walking contradiction. It fascinated Magneto in a way he knew it probably shouldn't--certainly in a way he knew could prove quite dangerous.

He really couldn't help himself.

"So you're saying we should make love, not war," he said, not bothering to keep the innuendo from his tone. Across the table, Charles flushed, a shy smile appearing on his face that he took care to hide behind his wine glass.

By the time they had finished dinner--and the wine--and had cleared the dishes, Magneto was feeling comfortably intoxicated. It wasn't just the alcohol. There was something decidedly inebriating about Charles' company. Magneto couldn't remember a time when he'd allowed himself the luxury of relaxing; of letting his guard down. Tonight he found himself doing both.

Charles led them back down to the juncture in the hall, this time taking the right branch, which brought them to an oversized study. The lamps were lit and a chessboard already set--all the scene was missing was a roaring fire, though the room did possess a fireplace, so Magneto supposed if they wanted one it would be short work.

"Normally I'd," Charles waggled his fingers, "but since there's a piece of anti-telepathy technology blocking me you'll have to simply tell me your drink of preference," he said. It was the first time he'd openly acknowledged the fact that Magneto was still wearing his helmet.

Magneto could have apologized--he could have offered to remove the offending device, but he had spent too much time in the company of telepaths; he knew what they were capable of, and it was hard to trust people who could manipulate a man's most basic thoughts. Instead, he simply answered Charles' question.

"A dry martini, please," he said.

Charles nodded and then wheeled himself over to a low bureau which turned out to be the bar. He took his time mixing Magneto's drink and then poured himself a scotch over ice. Magneto crossed the room to accept his drink, giving Charles a free hand to get himself to the chessboard.

"It's been some time since I last played," Charles said, choosing white. "I tried teaching Hank, but it can be hard to occupy his attention with things other than science."

Magneto had wondered where Charles' assistant was, but he wasn't sure if McCoy even lived in the house, so he didn't ask. Instead he claimed the chair opposite Charles and moved his pawn to e5.

"I'm sure you'll be fine," he said.

And he was; more than fine. Magneto couldn't remember the last time he'd played against such a skilled opponent. Charles kept him constantly guessing, employing strategies that Magneto saw only three moves later. The wine and whiskey had obviously done nothing to tether his genius. An hour later, Magneto watched in dazed confusion as Charles calmly stole his queen and put him in check.

"There is something I've been meaning to ask you," Magneto said, moving his king to safety.

"Oh," Charles said, glancing up. The soft light of the room amplified the blue of his eyes. Magneto momentarily forgot what they were talking about.

"That business I had earlier," he said once he'd remembered. Charles arched an eyebrow, the game losing his attention. "We were looking for a mutant. Someone they call the Wolverine. He was being held in one of William Stryker's facilities."

At the mention of Stryker's name, Charles' expression grew dark. There wasn't a mutant alive who didn't know who the man was, or the threat he represented.

"We went in for the purpose of extraction." It was one of the many things the Brotherhood did, and one of the few things he knew Charles couldn't find fault with. "But when we got there we found the place cleared. There was evidence of a struggle. We're not sure if Wolverine managed to escape, or if Stryker's moved him to a new location."

"What is Stryker doing with him?" Charles asked. He spat Stryker's name like it was a curse. Magneto thrilled to hear the venom in Charles' voice. They had so much more in common than Charles realized. It gave Magneto renewed hope.

"Turning him into a weapon, to use against us," Magneto said. He watched as Charles contemplated the news while simultaneously putting Magneto's king back into check.

"I'm not sure what this has to do with me," Charles said, glancing up from the board.

Magneto frowned at the chessboard. Charles would have him in checkmate in three moves.

"I was hoping I could convince you to help us find him. With Cerebro you could..." It was as far as he got before the look on Charles' face stopped him. A brief flash of despair, so vivid it stole Magneto's breath, was soon replaced by cold indifference, Charles' eyes shuttering, his jaw becoming a hard line of disappointment.

"Oh," he said, and Magneto suspected he'd intended his tone to be impassive. Instead he sounded utterly defeated. Magneto's heart clenched at the sound. "I had thought you... But of course that wasn't it; how foolish of me to think otherwise."

He drained the remainder of his whiskey in one gulp, setting his glass down amidst tumbled chess pieces, their game forgotten.

"I seem to have wasted both of our time. My apologies. Thank you for the game. I'm assuming you can find your own way out," Charles said, pushing away from the table. Without another word, he wheeled himself from the room, Magneto left to stare at his retreating form, not quite certain what had happened.

For a long minute he sat, staring at the door, occasionally glancing back down at the chessboard, then back up at the door. He expected Charles to return, to explain his abrupt departure, despite knowing it unlikely. He prided himself on being able to read people, but the truth was he was incapable of navigating the more complicated aspects of human relationships--the penalty for having spent his formative years in the hands of a madman, or so Raven felt compelled to constantly remind him.

"Oh," he said when it finally struck him. It should have earlier, possibly the moment Mystique had conceived the idea. He could have left then, should have left then; it was doubtful Charles wanted to see him ever again--and there went his hopes for a future with Charles fighting by his side, along with his hopes of finding the Wolverine in any sort of timely fashion. And that, Magneto realized, was exactly what had gotten him into this mess. It was impossible to separate his cause from anything else in his life, which was why his cause was the only thing in his life. He didn't leave, though, instead rising from his chair and tidying their drinks before going in search of Charles.

~*~

He was not disappointed. He told himself this firmly, repeatedly, as he wheeled himself as far from the study as he could possibly get. He should find Mr. Thompson, ensure that Erik--Magneto, Charles reminded himself--got out of the house without incident. Instead he found himself outside, heading down the gravel pathway toward the oak that on some days was his sole companion.

When did this become his life?

The worst part, he thought, was the humiliation of it all. Clearly he should have known--should have suspected at least, Magneto's reputation well known even to a hermit like Charles. He had hoped, however, that Erik had felt the same kinship towards him that he'd felt towards Erik.

"Stupid, stupid," Charles said beneath his breath.

It had grown late during their chess match. The grounds were silent and serene, the night far-reaching. Charles shivered, realizing that he'd neglected to bring a coat, the warmth of food and alcohol and good conversation artificially filling him. In their absence, he felt the cold acutely. He wanted for a pair of gloves. The chill numbed the beginning rumblings of anger, until Charles was left with only the familiar emptiness of despondency.

Oh how he wished he could nurse that anger.

In the weeks and months following Moria's death, Charles, overwrought with grief and guilt and uncertainty, still reeling from the loss of his legs, had often wished for death; wished to trade places with the woman he had tried so hard to love. He no longer wished for death--there was so much good he was capable of, so much he could contribute to the world--but there were days when he was so overcome by loneliness, his self-imposed isolation taking its toll, that he thought he might have been better off having died in that crash. Later, he'd reprimand himself for the thought, but in the here and now it seemed the thought had never left him, that it would linger about his head for eternity.

He had no idea how long he sat, the cold biting at his nose, bringing his skin to gooseflesh, but eventually the crunch of gravel behind him drew his attention. He shook his head, clearing the haze of wine from his vision, and turned, expecting to find Hank--or at the very least Mr. Thompson--coming to collect him. Instead he found himself face to face with Erik.

Night cast long shadows across Erik's face, making him impossible to read--and oh how he hated that helmet--so Charles sat perfectly still, maintaining his silence, waiting until Erik reached his side.

"Are you expecting me to apologize?" Charles said when the silence between them had grown tense.

"What?" Erik asked, sounding genuinely confused. Charles glanced down at his hands, then back up, surprised to find Erik suddenly so close. He had stepped forward until he was standing mere inches from Charles' chair, forcing Charles to tilt his head back to meet his eye. "Of course you don't owe me an apology, Charles. I suspect I owe you one, but I think I should first clarify something," he said.

Charles couldn't find his voice to respond, so he said nothing.

"I think you should know that I only discovered Wolverine was missing yesterday, a full twenty-four hours after I agreed to meet with you."

Charles wondered if the confession was meant to change anything. It occurred to him then that they had started off entirely on the wrong foot; Erik shielded by his helmet, Charles by his arrogance. What was he hoping to accomplish by forging a friendship--or whatever this was--with this man?

"Go ahead, see for yourself," Erik continued, reaching shaky hands to his head. Charles could only watch, dumbstruck, shocked to his very core, as Erik slid the helmet from his head.

He did not dive into Erik's mind immediately, however much he wanted to, but rather approached Erik's thoughts cautiously, timid in his telepathy in a way he had never been. Erik stood before him, clearly terrified, clearly uncertain, but stoic and resolved all the same. Rarely had Charles been witness to such bravery.

The first brush against Erik's thoughts was like stepping into a tangle of thorns, barbed wire set against an invading army. Charles picked a careful path between spikes of razor-sharp steel, wading into the standing calm of Erik's surface thoughts. Beyond, swirling chaos navigated a tightly woven maze of memories and experience, an impeding barrier to Erik's subconscious.

Charles cast these parts a wary glance, but remained within the relatively safe confines of Erik's surface thoughts.

Two things became immediately clear. The first was that Erik spoke the truth; he had accepted Charles' invitation with the best of intentions, and although those intentions were coloured by his desire for Charles to join his cause, he had genuinely wanted to spend an evening in Charles' company.

The second was that Erik returned the fledgling feelings of friendship and camaraderie that stirred in Charles' breast. For Erik the feeling was a new sensation, one that brought as much confusion and irritation as it did joy.

"Oh, Erik," Charles said, smiling. Were he not still inside Erik's head, he would have missed the subtle shift in Erik's expression. Still floating on the surface of Erik's thoughts as he was, he caught the slight relaxing of Erik's jaw even as he felt Erik's relief. It surged only briefly and then was gone, replaced by exasperated fondness and a brief flare of attraction.

"I apologize for overstepping," Erik said, stepping back abruptly, thoughts tinged with embarrassment. Without delving deeper, Charles couldn't tell if he was embarrassed for the direction of his thoughts or the apology.

"And I for thinking the worst," Charles replied.

Erik nodded briskly, the moment stretching out between them until Charles decided on a leap of faith.

"It's late and I'm tired, but if you wanted I could arrange a spare room for you for the night, and then in the morning I could show you Cerebro, try to find this Wolverine for you."

The surprise that flashed through Erik's mind was so sharp, so raw, that Charles knew he had made the right choice. Had Erik been manipulating him, he would have seen this outcome. That he had already dismissed the possibility of Charles' help told Charles all he needed to know.

Erik cleared his throat before answering, but even then all that came out was a hoarse, "Thank you."

Charles smiled and nodded up the path, waiting briefly for Erik to collect himself, helmet still tucked beneath his arm, before leading the way inside.


	7. Chapter 7

Erik woke from a restless sleep, senses on high alert. He remained prone and listened to the soft sounds of pre-dawn while simultaneously reaching out with his power to catalogue the metal in the room. When it became apparent that no immediate threat loomed, he released his hold on the bolts and nails and wires that had stood ready to do his bidding, and sat.

The room Charles had provided was elegant in its simplicity. A utilitarian space, unsuited to a man of Charles' ilk and offensive to a man of Magneto's position, Erik had found comfort within the unassuming space. Charles had sensed Erik's pleasure upon seeing it, and had smiled, offering it over for however long Erik chose to claim it.

The floor beside the bed was cold beneath his feet, but Erik merely stretched his toes against it and then stood, moving to the window to push aside heavy drapes. Outside, the sky was a subdued shade of purple-grey, the sun not yet risen, though already colouring the morning with light. He spared the splendor of it a single glance before moving to retrieve his clothes.

They sat folded atop the room's solitary dresser, where Erik had left them the night before. His helmet rested at their side, a gaudy monstrosity of a thing, its weight a burden Erik had born for far too long--and would again, when next he assumed the cloak of Magneto. For now, having reached an understanding with Charles, he was content leave the helmet aside, to trust in Charles as Charles had trusted him.

It was strange sensation. There were so few he could bring himself to trust; fewer still for whom he was willing to set aside the name Magneto. The thought of seeing Charles without the security of his helmet still terrified him, but he had decided on a show of faith and it had paid off in spades.

His room was on the same floor as the kitchen where they had eaten the previous night, so Erik was easily able to find his way back to it. It was empty when he arrived, though a percolator of freshly made coffee sat on the table, along with a loaf of bread and a slab of soft butter. Erik stole an apple from a bowl on the counter and went in search of a mug.

He was midway through his first coffee when Charles entered the room. He seemed startled to find Erik already awake--though without Erik's helmet, Charles could have undoubtedly reached out and ascertained his location.

"Good morning," Erik said.

"Good morning," Charles answered, coming fully into the room. Erik had already retrieved a second mug. He filled it now and handed it wordlessly to Charles.

In many ways it felt like they were meeting for the first time. Magneto Charles knew, but Erik had long known he was nothing like his authoritative counterpart. Certainly he possessed the same passion, the same drive, even the same ruthlessness, but now he was exposing his vulnerable underbelly, something that tended to make him skittish and uncertain. He remained silent, waiting for Charles' cue to determine how their newfound trust would settle.

"I thought after breakfast we could begin," Charles said, settling at the table. He reached for a piece of bread and covered it liberally in butter.

"Of course," Erik answered.

"I'll need all the information you have on this Wolverine. The more information I have the clearer picture I can form in my mind. It's still no guarantee of finding the man, but it'll certainly improve our chances."

Erik was prepared for this. He slid across a file-folder, its contents everything the Brotherhood had amassed on Wolverine and Stryker's involvement with him. Charles hummed thoughtfully as he opened the folder. Inside, an aged, undated photograph drew Charles' immediate attention. He exhaled sharply.

"Dear God. I know this man," he said. Erik's breath caught.

"You know him? How?" He hadn't meant to sound so demanding, as though Charles was a subordinate rather than an equal and tentative friend. Charles glanced up and frowned, but he quickly schooled his features to stillness. He turned the picture with his finger and thumb, and then slid it across the table to rest between Erik's down-turned palms.

"This is your Wolverine?" he asked. Erik nodded. "That night I called, the payphone was outside a pub called Harry's Hideaway, not ten miles from here. This man," Charles stabbed the photograph with his index finger, "helped me get my chair up a flight of stairs. I exchanged no more than three words with him."

"Ten miles from here," Erik said, stunned. What were the odds? Erik did not believe in coincidence. It took seconds for the pieces to slot into place. "Oh God," he said. "You're his target."

Charles cocked his head. His forehead furrowed. "Target?" he asked. Erik released a steady breath.

"I wasn't entirely honest with you. I told you Stryker intended to turn Wolverine into a weapon, but it would perhaps be more accurate to say he already has. If the Wolverine is free, then there is a good chance he's already hunting the mutants on Stryker's list. You're the most powerful telepath in the world, never mind a symbolic figure to the mutant revolution. You can't honestly believe Stryker wouldn't target you?"

Charles looked sceptical. "Then why didn't he kill me when he had the chance? I'm hardly defenseless, but he did have me at his mercy, never mind the element of surprise." He shook his head. "No, I refuse to believe that. I think we ought to operate on the assumption that Wolverine's on his own and running from Stryker."

Erik shook his head, even as he delighted at the exchange of ideas. This is what he lacked in the Brotherhood; someone to discuss ideas and strategies with, someone to debate courses of action.

"You really think it's coincidence he's here?"

A flicker of doubt settled over Charles' features, but he shook his head a second time.

"We won't know until we find him. Come on," he said, pushing himself away from the table.

Unlike the night before, they left the dishes sitting where they sat. Erik followed Charles from the room and down the same corridor they had traversed the night before. Across from the entranceway, they took a lift down into the basement.

"There are two sublevels beneath the house," Charles explained when the lift had brought them to their destination. Erik followed him into a vast, well-lit space more suited to a military base than an antiquated mansion in Westchester, New York. Erik stared, agog. A hall branched to their left, leading to an immense vault door. Erik thought it perfectly suited to an underground lair.

"The first sublevel, above us, houses Hank and my labs and several storage rooms where I keep most of my research. This level houses Cerebro, though the structure connects with several underground caverns, which I may someday claim as my own."

Charles made the statement with no trace of arrogance; only cold certainty and a keenness that Erik equated to his scientific mind. In the years since Erik had created the Brotherhood, he had had several organizational headquarters, most of which could have been called lairs. Even Genosha's capitol building, built to Erik's specifications, was impressive, but this; the Xavier mansion had potential beyond Erik's wildest imaginings.

 _Might I remind you that I do know what you're thinking, and the answer is still no; also I'm certainly not going to let you woo me into giving the Brotherhood access to the house._

It was the first time Charles had spoken directly into his mind, and Erik found the experience unsettling. He opted against complaint, instead employing a trick Emma had taught him--under duress, or course, but that was neither here nor there. He draped a thick, iron-plated curtain over his thoughts, tightening it securely against stray telepathic tendrils. It was not his intention to negate the trust that had grown between them, but rather to secure some measure of privacy. At his side, Charles flinched, but refrained from comment.

Whether it would keep Charles out remained to be seen, but at the very least Erik trusted him to be a man of integrity and honour. He thought Charles would respect his wishes.

Beyond the vault doors, Cerebro was unlike anything Erik had imagined. A cavernous room, hollowed into a sphere, occupied the space beyond the doors. A suspended bridge served as walkway and led towards what Erik assumed was Cerebro's interface. The entire room overflowed with metal. Erik could feel its pull; the sheer magnitude of its weight. He doubted he would ever understand the more technical aspects of the design, but he understood the metal--could recreate every panel that covered the room's walls.

"And this is Cerebro," Charles said, as though introducing an old friend. He lifted a helmet, not unlike Erik's, and placed it on his head.

"Do I need to step outside?" Erik asked, suddenly wary.

"Not at all," Charles said, closing his eyes, and just like that they were transported.

Whether it was Cerebro or a trick of Charles' mind, Erik watched the room fall out from beneath them. He stood, suspended in space, floating while held secure by the weight of gravity. The sensation was dizzying. Without meaning to, he reached out and curled a hand around Charles' shoulder.

When next the room materialized, it was overlaid with a world map. Countless points of red lit the surface. "Those are the world's mutants," Charles said. Erik could only stare, overwhelmed by the thought of so many.

The map shifted, focusing on the North American continent, shrinking rapidly until the state of New York resolved, Westchester eventually jumping forward to fill the space. "And these are the mutants local to the area. That's us," Charles said, gesturing to two red points that glowed brighter than the rest.

It occurred to Erik then that Charles likely could have started his search in the immediate area. Instead he had widened his gaze to the entire world. He was showing off, trying to impress. An amused smile settled on Erik's face. He thought back to their first meeting, to dragging a crate across the room by its hinges, and realized now that he'd done the same.

On the map, Charles flittered between points of light, dismissing each in term. Time passed. Erik could not be sure how long. It seemed like hours, and yet it could have been mere moments for all he could tell. It was possible he would leave Cerebro to find years had passed.

"There," Charles eventually said, pointing out a single dot on the map. "He's obviously been trained against telepaths; I can't breach his mind, not without him knowing, and that would give him advanced warning that we were coming."

"We?" Of all the things Erik had meant to focus on, that was not it.

"Of course we. The question is do we risk it? Are knowing his intentions worth the risk of him running?"

Erik glanced back at the map. He didn't know the area as well as he imagined Charles would, but he was fairly certain the tiny dot was somewhere in the Catskills. A quick trip; he could be there and back before nightfall--that was, of course, provided it was still morning.

Aloud he said, "I'd rather find him in person."

"Excellent," Charles said, the map disappearing, Cerebro lurching back into existence beneath their feet. Charles withdrew the helmet. "When do we leave?"

"I leave immediately. You are staying here," Erik answered, Magneto creeping into his tone. He squared his shoulders and drew himself to his full height, suddenly wanting his helmet.

"Don't be ridiculous, Erik. How are you going to find him, exactly? I'll know his mind as soon as I'm close enough. I'll be able to guide you to his location. It just makes logical sense to have me along," Charles answered. There was no irritation in his voice, only calm certainty, like he honestly believed Erik was being ridiculous and would soon see the error of his way.

Irritation and something Erik suspected might be affection blossomed in his chest. He wasn't used to people questioning his orders--he certainly wasn't used to people countermanding them.

"This guy is dangerous, Charles, and if he means to kill you, I'd rather you not get anywhere near him. I can call in a team. It might take a little longer, but we'll find him."

To Erik's surprise, Charles smiled, eyes lighting up with something Erik didn't want to question--whatever it was it made his heart lurch in his chest and his breathing go shallow.

"I appreciate the concern you have for my person, Erik, but I'm hardly defenseless."

He wasn't, Erik knew; was probably more capable than Erik's entire team combined. Still, something ugly settled in the pit of Erik's stomach at the thought of Charles in danger, which was frankly stupid, because this was what he wanted--Charles fighting by his side, the two of them forming an unbreakable partnership.

"Erik, if you bring in your team things are liable to get out of control. I don't want anyone getting hurt."

The way Charles said it, it wasn't clear if he meant himself, Erik or Wolverine. Probably all three, Erik reasoned. Agreeing went against all his instincts, but faced with Charles' pragmatic excitement, Erik found himself incapable of refusing. He suspected he might never be able to refuse Charles anything. Their continued friendship didn't bode well for Erik's authority, never mind his sanity.

"Fine, but you are to stay safely out of sight while I talk to this guy. You can piggyback in my head if you need to"--something he'd let Emma do once, then never again--"but until I deem him no longer a threat, I want you well out of the line of fire."

Charles beamed at him--actually beamed--and then reached forward to take Erik's hand. For a moment, Erik thought he intended only to hold it, his heart racing at the thought, but then Charles offered a firm, if lingering handshake before pulling back, radiating satisfaction.

"Come along, Erik. It's a long drive," he said, wheeling past Erik and out of the room. Erik was forced to take several steadying breaths before he felt capable of moving. Even then, he left the room on shaking legs.

~*~

Leaving Cerebro, Erik in tow, Charles felt a good ten years younger. In his youth, back when writing his thesis contended only with trips to the pub, Charles had wanted adventure the way some men wanted success or fame or money. He'd lost that, somewhere along the way. He missed the feeling; his entire body humming with unused energy, his mind sharp and focused in a way it only ever was when connected to Cerebro. It was a good feeling, and he let it carry him up the lift, then into the hall where he turned to face his companion.

Erik seemed slightly dazed and a brief glimpse of his thoughts--the few that leaked through, Charles respecting Erik's barriers--showed he was struggling to account for their time spent in Cerebro.

"It's only been an hour or so. Hard to tell inside Cerebro, I know, but you get used to it. I have a few arrangements I need to make. Can I meet you out front in say thirty minutes?"

Erik nodded, thinking briefly--loudly--about his helmet, so Charles knew it was something he intended to retrieve. He left Erik to it and wheeled to his room. The trip would take the better part of three hours, then three hours back, plus however long it took to locate and talk with Erik's Wolverine. They may even end up staying the night. There were things he would need, so Charles packed a small bag, then set about hunting down Mr. Thompson, who oversaw the running of the Xavier household. He left a note for Hank with Thompson, not particularly wanting to endure the argument he was sure Hank would start, especially once he discover who it was Charles intended to run off with.

Twenty-three minutes later, he exited the house via the small servant's entrance that stood adjacent to the front doors. He found Erik standing, half leaned, against a small, shiny black car. Charles quirked an eyebrow.

"A sports car? Really, Erik," he said, eyeing Erik's car.

Erik glanced over his shoulder at the car, then back to Charles. "What's wrong with it?"

"Absolutely nothing. I'm just wondering where on earth you got it. Surely you don't have a fleet of sports cars waiting for you in each city." When Erik didn't answer, Charles let his expression grow incredulous. "Dear God, Erik. You stole it?"

"Appropriated," Erik corrected, looking smug.

"You're absurd. We can't drive around in a stolen car. Are you insane?"

Erik smiled, a shit-eating grin that showed too many teeth. Charles suspected it was meant to be intimidating. Instead it made him look boyish. Charles found it entirely too charming.

"I don't think we have too much to worry about," Erik said. "I am travelling with a telepath. You can just," he mimicked the gesture Charles had used the night before, when he'd asked after Erik's drink preference, "can't you?"

Charles shook his head.

"I could, but that doesn't mean I will. Some of us have ethics, you know," he said. He wasn't sure how he was expecting Erik to respond to that, but he certainly wasn't expecting Erik to burst out laughing.

The sound of it carried, wrapping around Charles until he wasn't certain if he should respond with indignation or mirth. "What is so funny?" he asked, mustering his best glare.

Erik's laughter trailed off, but his smile lingered. "Within twenty minutes of meeting you, you used your telepathy to manipulate at least four people. God knows how many minds you've played with in the last week. You, Charles Xavier, are completely unethical," he said.

Indignation won. Charles drew himself up, jaw clenching as he tried and failed to come up with a retort. How dare Erik--Magneto of all people--question his ethics? If Charles wanted to, he could rule the world with a single thought, and yet here he sat, alone in this drafty old house, conducting research that might someday further the mutant cause, all through a selfless need to help mutantkind. How was that unethical?

He opened his mouth to tell Erik exactly that, but before he could get a word out, they were interrupted by a furious, growling Hank.

"A note, Professor?" he said, appearing at Charles' side, piece of paper clutched in his hand. Damn Thompson for not following Charles' instructions to deliver the note after Charles had left. And this, he realized, was exactly why he sometimes used his telepathy to his advantage, because otherwise his life was simply far too complicated to tolerate--and all right, Erik might have a point.

"I thought it best to inform you, but didn't wish to disturb your work," Charles said, but it was obvious Hank was no longer listening. He was staring at Erik, eyes growing wide as he connected Erik's presence with Charles' leaving.

"Absolutely not," Hank said. Charles sighed, absently rubbing his temple against the stirrings of a headache. When he caught Erik's pointed expression, he dropped his hand as though scalded.

"Hank, I really do appreciate your concern," and he did, but sometimes Hank tended to treat him like a wayward child, especially since the accident--ironic considering Hank had started as Charles' graduate student, "but I am perfectly capable of making my own decisions, and right now I've decided to accompany Erik on his trip."

And now he was faced with a dilemma, because it was obvious from Hank's stance that he wasn't going to back down, something Charles could easily overcome with only the slightest of nudges, but he was hardly willing to prove Erik's point--though he could concede now that Erik did have a point.

"Hank," Charles tried again, this time giving a slight nudge so that Hank turned to meet his gaze--it wasn't cheating, it really wasn't. "I promise you I will be safe."

If anything this only made Hank angrier. "Safe? There is nothing safe about this man, Charles. The authorities may not classify him as such, but make no mistake, Magneto is a terrorist. I don't know what it is about him that interests you, but you are not safe in his presence."

Hank's animosity where the Brotherhood was concerned was an old thing, born from the loss of a woman to their cause. He still resented their existence, blamed them for wooing the heart of the girl he'd wanted to marry. Charles hadn't realized that that hate extended to the Brotherhood's leader.

It was as irrational as Charles not using the part of himself that made him who he was. Ignoring what Erik might say on the subject, Charles brought his fingers to his temple.

"I will be fine, Hank. You can--and will--yell at me when I get home, but right you're going to retrieve the Land Rover and then head inside and cross reference those samples we got last week. I expect a full work up by the time I get back."

Hank was moving the second Charles finished speaking. Charles hazarded a glance in Erik's direction, only to find Erik eyeing him speculatively, slight smirk tugging at his lip.

"Oh, shut up," Charles said.

Wisely, Erik didn't comment. "Land Rover, Charles?" he said instead.

"Well, we're certainly not taking your stolen sports car, which you will be returning as soon as we get back," Charles answered.

To his surprised, Erik acknowledged the request with a nod of his head and then retrieved both a bag and his helmet from the back seat of his car. A minute later Hank returned with a vehicle actually suited to trekking through the Catskills. Erik ignored Hank entirely as he claimed the driver's seat, leaving Charles to pull himself into the passenger's seat.

"Hmm," Charles said, eyeing his chair, but Hank, still operating on Charles' earlier instructions, had already left, heading into the lab to do Charles' bidding. At his side, Erik chuckled, then lifted a hand, flicking his wrist almost absently. Charles watched, captivated, as Erik manipulated his chair into the truck, all without ever once glancing in its direction.

"We good?" he asked when he was done.

"We're good," Charles said, and then they were off, driving through the iron gates that had once seemed so ominous--and now seemed a gateway to adventure.


	8. Chapter 8

The trip took longer than Charles had anticipated. Inside Cerebro, Charles could travel thousands of miles in seconds, so he often forgot what it was like to be limited by both the laws of physics and the limitations of vehicular technology--not to mention state speed laws.

After three hours of driving, they stopped in Shokan so that Charles could urinate--not an easy process these days, but he was well used to the inconvenience of having to insert a catheter every time his bladder grew too full. The day was clear and crisp, so after Charles had pissed, they bought sandwiches--Reubens made with marble rye and paired with thick slices of pickle--and ate them outside. Erik sat on the hood of Charles' truck, while Charles parked his chair under the overhang of a spectacularly coloured maple tree.

Erik was unusually quiet--had been the entire trip--but he seemed more at ease than he had the day before, naturally comfortable in a way Magneto tried too hard to be, like Erik had finally received permission to simply exist and was taking advantage. Even without delving into Erik's mind, Charles knew he was seeing the man Erik might have been were it not for the weight of Magneto's helmet. It was frightening how quickly Charles was growing to like this man.

"How close do you need to be to..."

It took Charles a minute to figure out what Erik was talking about, the wiggling of his fingers--and God, he had such long, dexterous fingers--distracting.

"I'm not really certain," Charles admitted. It had been far too long since he'd bothered testing himself outside of Cerebro. "Let's find out, then, shall we." He brought his fingers to his temple and closed his eyes, letting everything else fall away as he focused on finding Wolverine's mind.

He could still sense Erik, leaning forward now, elbows against his knees as he watched Charles with tensely coiled anticipation. His presence was a distraction, so Charles blocked the eager excitement he could feel coming off Erik in waves, and concentrated instead on sending his thoughts north and west, towards the coordinates Cerebro had given them.

Ten minutes or so had passed before Charles was once again aware of his surroundings. It was strange to find himself in so open a place, Charles used to the security of Cerebro. It was strange, too, to realize how much he trusted Erik; enough to have just placed his safety completely in Erik's hands. If Erik knew this, he said nothing, his expression only mildly curious, although the taut lines of his body betrayed his tension.

"A vague impression, about twenty miles north of here, but aside from that I can't tell you much," Charles said, shrugging off the impressed look Erik shot in his direction.

"Don't be modest. That's a fairly impressive range. Emma can barely manage half a mile," Erik said.

Charles chuckled. He knew Ms. Frost by reputation only, but he had brushed her mind on several occasions while connected to Cerebro. She was a powerful telepath, but certainly no match for Charles. Still, Erik's praise brought heat to his face; his cheeks no doubt stained a brilliant shade of pink.

Naturally Erik noticed, a grin spreading across his face, like he had somehow scored a point in a game Charles hadn't known they were playing. Charles had never wanted so badly to peek inside someone's head. He would have given anything to know what Erik was thinking then, to match the mischievous glint in Erik's eyes to whatever thought had caused it. He kept his promise, though, however silently made, settling instead on giving Erik a pointed look, one he hoped conveyed his willingness to play by Erik's rules.

Erik's grin widened, and he hopped down from his perch on the hood, shaking out the last of his tension before he stalked to where Charles sat. Charles held himself perfectly still, heart racing as Erik leaned over his chair and braced himself on Charles' armrests.

"Charles Xavier, has no one ever told you how brilliant you are?" he asked. Unconsciously, Charles wet his lips.

"I can't say I recall those exact words, no," Charles said, though he barely recognized his own voice, hoarse and gravelly as it was.

Erik was still smiling, still leaning over his chair--just like he had that first night they'd met--the warmth of his body bleeding into the space between them. Just to be contrary, Charles' skin broke out into gooseflesh.

"In that case, it ought to be said. You, Charles, are perfection."

And, oh, how he wanted that moment to last forever; wanted to stretch it out into eternity, to spend the rest of time trapped beneath the heat of Erik's body--and it was readily becoming apparent exactly what it was he wanted from Erik. The universe, however, had always hated Charles--he could think of no other explanation that might explain his life thus far--the moment interrupted by a loudly barked laugh, followed by a shout of _faggots_ that immediately soured the intimacy between them.

Erik withdrew, features going stony, and Charles knew he was now looking at Magneto. He watched, terror growing in his heart, as Erik turned to face the two men who had so rudely interrupted them. They were big men, each easily twice Erik's size, and Charles could tell--from the brief glimpse of their thoughts--that they thought they had the advantage. What they didn't know--couldn't conceive, probably--was that they were dealing with two of the world's most powerful mutants. Erik was going to destroy them.

"Erik," Charles said, wheeling himself forward until he was at Erik's side. He reached a steady hand to Erik's wrist and curled his fingers around it. _If you do this, word will get out, and Wolverine will know we're coming. Please, let me,_ he said into Erik's mind.

Erik remained tense and Charles could tell he was fighting against himself, but just when Charles thought he might need to resort to firmer measures, Erik relaxed, a low, lazy smile spreading across his face. He stepped back and gestured broadly to the two men, nodding his acceptance.

Charles could feel his curiosity, but more than that, he was aware of Erik's certainty. Erik was confident Charles could nullify the situation without alerting anyone to their presence. His trust was overwhelming, especially since Charles hadn't yet decided how best to defuse the situation. It came to him suddenly, staring at Erik as he was, an earlier conversation blooming in his mind in a way that left Charles doubting if the thought was even his.

Erik had accused him of wanting to make love, not war. It seemed fitting.

It didn't require a re-write of personality, or even a forced suggestion. Charles merely fanned a spark. Their two would-be assailants immediately forgot they had ever intended to start a fight--forgot about Charles and Erik entirely, lost as they were in each other. At his side, Erik choked on his laughter. Charles couldn't help but smile.

"We really ought to leave, though. They'll swap spit for another twenty minutes or so, but I for one don't want to be around when their heads clear," Charles said.

Still laughing, Erik nodded his agreement. "That certainly beat what I was planning on doing," he said.

"Oh, and what was that?" Charles asked, smiling. He was feeling particularly pleased with himself, but he was mostly thrilled that the interruption hadn't ruined the energy between them.

"Pick them up by their belt buckles and slam them into their truck," Erik said. He shrugged. "Sometimes simple works best."

Charles couldn't help but laugh.

Once Charles was safely inside the Land Rover, Erik stowed his chair without the use of his powers, obviously taking Charles' warning to heart. He climbed into the driver's side a minute later and started them back towards the freeway. In the growing distance, their would-be assailants continued their quest to swallow one another's tonsils.

~*~

Erik drove the remaining distance at exactly the speed limit, not because he particularly wanted to obey the law--and a human law at that--or even because he was worried about the winding roads and rolling hills, but because he wanted to prolong their journey, to spend more time in Charles' company--and when had he ever compromised a mission for something so utterly ludicrous? Erik shook away the thought.

His body hummed with unused energy, a by-product of too long sitting behind a wheel. Beside him, Charles hummed along with the radio, fingers absently tapping against his knees. His window was down, and the wind ran through his hair, pushing it off his face and exposing the startling blue of his eyes. The slight October chill had turned his cheeks pink--the same colour they were outside the delicatessen in Shokan, Erik couldn't help but think.

God, he was so angry at those stupid, ignorant Homo sapiens. It was a mark of the influence Charles had over him--already, and what was worse Erik wasn't bothered by it in the least--that he hadn't killed them both instantly. He'd wanted to--Magneto had wanted to--but all it had taken was a soft word, whispered in the confines of his head, and his anger had melted away. The man was otherworldly, there was no other explanation.

"Um, Erik," Charles said.

Erik came to abruptly, realizing then that he'd been staring at Charles instead of the road and in the process had veered into the other lane. He corrected with too much force, fish-tailing the truck. On coming drivers blared their horns, as though Erik didn't know what he'd done--wasn't intensely fighting to keep the truck on the road. He spared them a single scowl, thinking that if it weren't for Charles, he would have sent them careening off the road just for spite. Instead he ignored them, righted the car, and pushed the gas pedal to the floor.

"Sorry, long drive," Erik said once they were relatively safe--and there he went again, because Magneto would never apologize and he certainly wouldn't admit vulnerability. What had Charles done to him?

"I'd offer to take over, but..." Charles gestured absently to his legs. "Although, I'm sure if I asked Hank could devise some sort of hand control system for me. For all I know such a thing already exists. Isn't that ridiculous, that it hasn't occurred to me until now?"

Charles made the statement with nothing but good humour, and that, Erik suspected, was exactly why he didn't feel the need to keep his defenses up around Charles. He had never known a man so quick to self-deprecate; it was as though Charles had long since catalogued his strengths and weaknesses and had determined the latter to be of little importance. Erik, on the other hand, still expended a good deal of his energy trying--often in vain--to hide his weaknesses; another by-product of his misbegotten youth.

"I'll be fine. We're close now, aren't we?"

"Very, I should say. He's quite clear now, no more than a mile or two. Without going straight into his head, I can only tell you that he's exhausted but content, and thinking about pancakes," Charles said. The statement was so ridiculous Erik laughed. He hazarded a glance in Charles' direction and found him wearing a sloppy, ridiculous looking grin.

God, how Erik wanted to kiss the man.

The thought was as surprising as it was unexpected--though when he thought back over the last two days, he realized it wasn't the first time he'd considered such a thing. Still, it wasn't like him to allow distraction like this. Erik shook his head. Who was he kidding? He'd been distracted from the moment they'd met--even Mystique had called him on it.

It was probably a conversation they should have another time, when they weren't about to go after a mutant whose skill sets included unlimited strength and spontaneous regeneration. _Focus_ , he told himself, tightening his grip on the wheel. Ahead, the road bent sharply to the left and Erik slowed the truck to follow it.

"No, stop," Charles said and Erik immediately hit the brake. "Sorry. We need to go back. There's a road we passed; that's what we're looking for."

Erik shook his head. "There's no road. We passed a trail, that's it."

"Yes, that's it," Charles said with such conviction that Erik didn't hesitate in turning the car.

He was glad Charles had made them switch cars--there was no way in hell his stolen sports car would have made it down this road, if it could even be called that. An old logging road, Erik thought, turned hiking trail in the modern, post-Woodstock era of tree-hugging insanity. Trees and underbrush scrapped against the sides of the Land Rover. The entire vehicle jostled and shook. They were lucky it was late in the year--they never would have made the trip had the ground been soft with spring thaw.

"I don't like this," Erik said. They were moving ever closer to this Wolverine guy when all Erik wanted was to keep Charles as far from him as possible. He knew he should have insisted on going alone--although he was beginning to have serious doubts as to his ability to find Wolverine without Charles' help.

"Have a little faith, Erik. I'll know well before we encounter anything untoward." Erik could only grunt in response.

Twenty minutes later, the road spat them out, rather unceremoniously Erik thought, into a clearing where several other cars and trucks sat parked next to six long, grey trailers. The entire area had a deserted, abandoned feel to it--much like Stryker's abandoned base--though from the equipment Erik could see lying around, he knew the camp's occupants were only temporarily away.

"This, I believe, would be an illegal logging operation. Our Wolverine is a lumberjack," Erik said.

"Well, that explains the pancakes," Charles said without missing a beat. Erik glanced in his direction, met Charles' gaze and dissolved into laughter. A moment later Charles joined in.

It was ridiculous, sitting in enemy territory, giggling over a bad joke like two wayward teens, but Erik couldn't remember the last time he'd so thoroughly enjoyed himself. How different his life might have been if he'd met Charles when he was still a young man.

"Are we close?" Erik asked when he was again capable of speaking. Charles' laughter trailed off, and he closed his eyes, opening them a second later and shaking his head.

"A mile, no more," he said. Erik nodded. Wolverine was out in the bush then, with the rest of the camp's inhabitants. "But there is someone in the first trailer, possibly a foreman. We could go have a chat."

Erik wanted to argue, to tell Charles it was too dangerous, and that it would announce their presence, but as soon as he thought it he remembered what Charles was and knew they could have an entire conversation with the man without anyone being any the wiser. It was probably their best option, especially since Erik doubted he could float Charles' wheelchair a mile through the woods and still have enough energy left over to fight if it came down to it.

It was far easier to float Charles' chair over the uneven ground and up the steps to the trailer. The entire time Charles sat primly in the chair, hands folded in his lap, as though Erik floating him was an everyday occurrence. Erik marvelled at his poise. This was a man made to command armies. What he wouldn't give to make Charles see that.

Not that he still held any delusions of enticing Charles to his side, but he was beginning to suspect they might just find some common ground, carve something new from the energy between them. The prospect was exciting, although Erik suspected he was merely looking for an excuse to keep Charles in his life.

Inside the trailer, the foreman--or whoever he was--was sitting, bent over a desk, paperwork spread out before him. He stood abruptly when they entered.

"And just who in the hell..." was as far as he got before Charles intervened.

"Mr. Holman, thank you for agreeing to meet with us," Charles said. Mr. Holman instantly reclaimed his seat and smiled across the desk at them. Erik didn't think he'd ever get tired of seeing Charles at work. Were he a less composed man, he might have clapped his hands together in glee. Instead he stood at Charles' right shoulder and projected his most menacing persona.

"Of course, it's the least I can do. Please, tell your partner to take a seat," Mr. Holman said, but Charles waved the suggestion away.

"You were just telling us about..." Erik could only assume Charles had implanted the idea of Wolverine into the man's head. It was a fascinating thing to watch, like being privy to only half a conversion, the subtext of the thing lost to him. Under normal circumstances, it would have bothered him greatly, but with Charles he merely relaxed and let nature take its course.

"Logan, that's right. Good guy. Came to me a few days ago, looking for work. Had him up on the slopes that same night. Damned good at what he does, too. Strong as an ox, and fast, too. He'll serve you well, though I confess, I don't like to lose him."

Erik had no idea who Holman thought they were, or what he thought they wanted with Wolverine--or Logan as Holman had called him.

"I completely understand. Do you know when he'll be back?" Charles asked. Erik began absently playing with the coins in his pockets, rolling them over one another in an easy, four-beat rhythm.

"Day like today, might sleep out under the stars, come back in the morning. I'd offer to send someone out, but I ain't got anyone else on hand. Might get lucky and have em come in tonight, but I'd wager you want to be here an hour or so after sunrise," Holman said.

Erik stopped listening, though he was vaguely aware of Charles offering his thanks, then asking after a local hotel, before finally giving Holman a firm command to forget their presence entirely. When he was done, he exchanged a brief glance with Erik and then headed to the door. Erik crooked a finger, elevating Charles' chair into the air and floating him back to the car.

"You're thinking tomorrow," Erik said once they were secure inside the vehicle.

"That and the hotel Holman recommended is adjacent a bar that happens to be very popular with the logging crowd after work. If they come back in tonight, there's a good chance Logan will stop in. If not, we catch him in the morning."

"Sounds like a plan," Erik said, and he should have been mad--he should have been furious--another day wasted, and were it anyone but Charles he knew he would be fuming. Instead he was bordering on deliriously giddy, the thought of getting to spend yet another night in Charles' company too good an opportunity to miss.

God, he really was in over his head, wasn't he?


	9. Chapter 9

The hotel--and despite the sign proclaiming it as such, Charles didn't think it deserving of the name--was the kind of motor court they built in the fifties, only since then it had been left to fall into disrepair. It was clean, he'd give it that much--the stink of bleach overwhelming even the stale scent of tobacco--but the walls were in need of paint and the linens hadn't been replaced in decades. He could no longer discern the carpet's original colour, but he suspected the patterns that covered its surface were made long after it was installed.

Charles looked around his room and wondered how exactly he had thought he could manage this.

It wasn't just the logistical problems--too little space to maneuver his chair, never mind a narrow bathroom door that was never meant to accommodate a man in a wheelchair--but also the thought of sleeping somewhere that wasn't his familiar, comfortable bed, with all the amenities he had grown used to over the years. Charles hadn't slept somewhere foreign since his honeymoon. The prospect of doing so now made his chest constrict painfully. Were he not already intimately familiar with the sensation of a panic attack, he might have thought he was having a heart attack.

"Breathe," he told himself firmly as he wheeled further into the room.

A double bed, mattress sagged in the middle, took up most of the room, though they had somehow managed to cram a desk, end table and chest of drawers into the remaining space. They were a matched set, knotted pine that carried as many stains as the carpet. Two feet into the room and Charles had to stop, his path blocked on all sides, save the way he'd come. There would be no reaching the bed, or the tiny bathroom--though from what he could see through the open door, he doubted it would matter much. There was little space between the toilet and pedestal sink, and in place of a tub, there was a standing-room only shower with dials well outside his reach.

Charles wondered briefly if Erik would mind relocating.

As if summoned, Erik appeared in the still open door.

"It's worse than mine," he said, stepping past Charles, an act that caused Erik's outer thigh to brush against the backside of Charles' knuckles. Perhaps there was something to be said for tight places, after all. "There's another motel ten miles up, but I can't imagine it'll be much better, not to mention this is a convenient location."

He tilted his head then, considering. Charles watched, dumbstruck, as Erik raised his hands, as though preparing to conduct an imaginary symphony. The desk migrated to the far corner, providing a base for what was to become a pyramid of furniture, the dresser and end table stacked neatly on top. When he had finished, the room was considerably more spacious, with more than enough room for Charles to get to the bed.

"How did you manage that?" Charles asked, gesturing to the wood. Erik tutted, but he was smiling, obviously pleased by Charles' enthusiasm.

"Nails, Charles." He glanced briefly at Charles' chair and then turned a narrow eye to the bathroom door. "We may need to pay damages," he said.

Charles' confusion must have shown on his face, because Erik laughed, then lifted a hand, crooked his fingers, and the entire wall into the bathroom shuddered. Charles watched, transfixed, as Erik worked a line of nails, popping them one by one until the stud came undone. He did the same with another stud, and another, and another, until the wall came free, dust and plaster shaking loose and covering the room in white. Through the dust, Charles watched Erik float the wall by its remaining nails and screws. He leaned it in front of the furniture pile, the entire back right corner of the room now impromptu storage. There was now a clean line from the door to the bed and from the bed to the bathroom.

"Yes, I can see how that was helpful," Charles said, coughing sharply, choking on the fall out. He made a point of dusting plaster from his hair.

"We'll have them send in the maid while we're at dinner, get the place cleaned out," Erik said, and Charles knew without asking that Erik expected him to hand-wave the innkeepers into compliance.

On the plus side, the toilet was now easily accessible through the once-wall, now-hole. It was probably a good thing Charles' propriety had led him to insist on his own room.

"You realize this is going to cost a minor fortune? And no, I'm certainly not going to telepathy them into footing the bill themselves," Charles said. Erik offered a near scathing look, though it was tinged around the edges with exasperated affection.

"How little you think of me, Charles," he said, and Charles wanted to correct him, to tell him that, no, he actually thought a good deal of him--certainly more than he ever thought he would--but before he could comment, Erik continued. "Perhaps you're not aware, but the Brotherhood's liquid assets are, at last estimate, somewhere in the neighbourhood of three hundred and eight million. I'm sure we can cover the damages."

Erik wasn't boasting--Magneto might have, but Erik was merely stating fact. His words were accompanied by a sudden hardening of the shields he had set around his thoughts. Charles knew without looking that the vast majority of that wealth had been amassed under questionable methods. The Brotherhood might have a legitimate, corporate front, but there were few who didn't know that that front was mostly for show.

"My apologies," Charles said with a mock bow that earned him a smile. "We'll stop at the office on the way to dinner. And, Erik, thank you."

Erik's eyes lit up, and Charles wondered when he'd started allowing Erik to so thoroughly influence his actions. It was possible Hank's worries were well-founded, that Erik was a bad influence. It was almost a shame Charles couldn't bring himself to mind.

~*~

The bar Holman had mentioned sat adjacent to the motel, a rough-looking road house with more motorcycles outside than cars. The innkeepers--who were more than happy to wave off the damages in Charles' room in exchange for Erik's money--had insisted the place served the best steaks this side of Texas, so they'd gone in, looking for food and a quiet place to wait. They got the food, but not the quiet, the place exceedingly loud, despite the sun having only just set.

Still, they had a table to themselves, which was more than Erik had expected in a place like this. They sat near the back of the room, backs against the far wall and eyes on the door. Dinner had come and gone, and now they sat, Charles several drinks in, Erik still nursing his first beer, watching the door for any sign of their quarry.

From somewhere inside the bag Charles had brought, he pulled out a travel chess set and began setting it up on the table between them. Erik arched an eyebrow, but otherwise refrained from comment. They were already out of place here and he could see no reason to conform to the local standard--which wasn't, in Erik's opinion, particularly high.

"I hope you don't mind. I get so few occasions to play, and, well, our last game was interrupted," Charles said, voice raised to be heard over the din. Erik chuckled, remembering how their last game had ended. He gestured for Charles to continue his setup.

It was clear Charles was pleased by Erik's response, but Erik suspected he would have ended playing regardless of desire. Erik was quickly realizing that Charles didn't take no for an answer--which was probably why they were sitting in this bar, waiting on Wolverine, when Erik distinctly remembered telling Charles that he wanted him well out of this until Erik had neutralized the threat. He hated how quickly the thought soured his mood.

"You're thinking rather furiously over there," Charles said when he was done setting up the board. He was quick to elaborate at Erik's sharp glance. "I'm not listening in, so I don't know what you're thinking, only that you are."

"I was actually wondering how we got here. I distinctly recall telling you this morning that you weren't to come within a mile of Wolverine. I believe my exact words were that I wanted you well out of the line of fire. Care to explain why we're sitting here when I should have left you back at the hotel and came here on my own?"

As soon as he asked, he felt guilty, but he didn't take it back. It was the sort of thing that should have made Erik furious--Magneto would have killed Charles on the spot had he discovered Charles had been messing with his head--but instead Erik found himself only mildly annoyed and, if he was honest, somewhat hurt. He had thought Charles would respect the boundaries of their friendship.

Charles' face had paled, and he was staring across the table, wide-eyed, his mouth frozen open in the perfect impression of a gaping fish.

"You think I influenced you? I didn't, Erik. I swear to you, I didn't. I really thought you'd just changed your mind, or forgot, or... I don't know, decided you needed me at your side."

There was no lie that Erik could discern in Charles' voice, but it was the hurt look in Charles' eyes that settled it for him. His guilt increased tenfold, seizing in his throat until he thought he might choke on it. He told himself that it wasn't his fault; that suspicion came naturally to him--he was so very used to being betrayed--and that it was inevitable that he would come to question Charles' motives. Still, he hated that it was him who had put that hurt look on Charles' face, especially when things had been going so well between them.

"I'm sorry," he said, the apology stilted and awkward on his unpracticed tongue. "God, Charles, I..."

Charles' expression softened, and he leaned forward and placed his hand atop Erik's. "It's fine. Expected, really--you've hardly had cause to trust the people in your life--and I haven't exactly given you any reason to trust me." Erik thought of Hank and instantly understood where his fears originated--understood too that they were, in part, founded. "But I swear to you I won't ever, not with you."

Erik wasn't sure why he of all people warranted Charles' restraint, but he nodded, feeling a renewed surge of trust that was as foreign as it was comforting.

"Still, I am sorry," Erik said, realizing then that Charles' hand was still resting over his. He flipped his palm, offering Charles' hand a brief squeeze before he pulled his hand away to move his rook.

"It's forgiven, and forgotten," Charles said, countenance immediately brightening.

It was easy then to fall into their game, Erik soon as relaxed as he'd been on the drive up. It wasn't often that he found himself so at ease; certainly his life hadn't been conducive to such a thing. He found himself wondering what it might have been like to meet Charles back when he was young and rash and looking for answers. Would Charles have steered him down a different path? Or would they have butted heads and ended hating one another?

Back in the days when Erik had spent countless hours a day reading and re-reading Charles' work--back before he'd found other mutants, when Charles' work was the only link he had to knowing who he was, to knowing he wasn't alone--he'd fantasized often about meeting the man, about long conversations and all the wonderful places their visions might take them. Charles was nothing like the man he'd envisioned back then, but for the first time in his life, reality was better than fantasy.

"I've lost you again," Charles said. He was staring at Erik intently. Erik contemplated the board and made his move, hoping Charles would think him simply lost in strategy. Charles laughed. "You're not playing well enough for that, and yes, this time I am reading your mind."

There was enough cheek in Charles' tone that Erik forgave him for it. He cocked his head, considering, and then decided on honesty.

"I was just wondering what you were like as a young man," he said. Charles looked startled. "I read your manifesto, you know, not long after you'd written it. It was very inspirational."

"Really?" Charles sounded as incredulous as he did flattered.

"At the time, I didn't know other mutants existed. I thought I was..." a freak he wanted to say, an anomaly, or maybe even a monster--certainly that was what Schmidt had intended to create, "alone," he settled on. "It was like I was drowning in icy water, and then your manifesto came along and suddenly I'd broken the surface. Knowing you now, I'm sure you didn't mean for me to interpret your work as I did, but at the time, it gave me a sense of purpose I'd never had before." Save killing Schmidt, he didn't say, but Charles looked so honestly touched that Erik suspected he'd forgive the admission.

It had been a while since he'd been so honest, since he'd opened himself so completely to another person. Part of him considered it amends for his earlier accusation, but part of him simply wanted Charles to know--to understand--the influence he'd had on Erik's life.

"I'm not sure you would have liked me back then. I was far more idealistic, and a good deal more arrogant, I'm afraid," Charles said. He seemed slightly embarrassed by the confession. Erik couldn't help himself.

"I wouldn't have thought that possible," he said with a smirk. Charles shot him an affronted look, but he was smiling too, seeming flushed and warmed by the openness of their conversation--though the three empty whiskey glasses on the table were probably helping.

"Do you know, I hardly ever used my telepathy back then. Actually, that's not true; I used it all the time, but I was far stricter in how I used it. It wasn't until a few years later, after I'd read a very fascinating essay, that I realized my telepathy was a part of me and that denying it would be denying my very nature. It was quite the enlightening experience," Charles said.

He was smiling again, wide and innocent, which Erik knew by now meant Charles was up to some mischief. He leaned back in his chair, took Charles' queen, and asked, "Oh?"

"I distinctly remember the essay was called _A Mutant Call to Arms_ , though I can't for the life of me recall its author." Charles' grin was threatening to spill over into full out laughter. Erik would have scolded him for it were he not so completely blown away by Charles' confession.

He'd been so young when he'd written that essay. It was only a fluke that had allowed him to see it to publication; a wistful hope that it might attract mutants to his cause. And it had, but to know now that Charles Xavier had read it and found something in it worth keeping was enough to set Erik's heart racing. Without thinking he reached across the table and once again took Charles' hand. Charles offered him a warm smile at the gesture.

"Thought you'd like that," Charles said, moving his king out of check with his left hand, his right remaining firmly entwined with Erik's left.

They played that way for the better part of the night, Charles waving away anyone who thought to question it, Erik thrilling at the contact--he honestly couldn't remember when he'd last touched someone just for the sake of touching. When last call came with still no sign of Wolverine, Erik finally withdrew his hand, drained the last of his beer--the second of the night--and gave Charles a pointed look. He had no idea what he intended it to mean.

"I guess we have an early morning, then," Charles said, glancing at his watch. He pushed aside his latest whiskey--and God, could the man drink, Erik thought-- and maneuvered himself away from the table. A dry chuckle escaped his lips. "Another unfinished game," he said, though in truth it was their second of the night, and Charles had won the first.

Charles packed the chess set while Erik settled their tab. When they got back to Charles' room, they found it cleaned, the bed re-made with mismatched sheets and the extra furniture--and wall--cleared from the room.

"We'll need to leave here at seven," Erik said, knowing he should leave Charles to his own devices, head next door and get some sleep. Instead he found himself standing awkwardly in Charles' room, the door still open behind him.

He wasn't sure what he was waiting for--an invitation, maybe, or possibly acknowledgement from Charles that something had shifted in their relationship. Instead Charles looked as awkward as Erik. It took Erik a minute to realize he was eyeing the exposed bathroom wearily.

"Well, goodnight, Charles," Erik said, stepping back through the door.

"Goodnight, Erik," Charles returned, and Erik didn't miss the slight hint of regret in his tone. A worry for another day, after they'd finished what they'd come to do. Erik smiled, bright and honest, and tipped an imaginary hat in Charles' direction. It earned him a soft smile, Charles offering a gracious nod in turn.

Walking back to his room, Erik felt a good deal lighter than he had in years.

~*~

Mornings were rough. Awkward, too, especially waking in a strange place, practically trapped in the divot on the bed, with no one to call to for help--save Erik, who Charles could sense already moving next door, but there was no way in hell he was going to ask Erik to help him out of bed, no matter how carnivorous it might be.

He eventually managed it, with more cursing than he would ever admit. His upper body strength had improved dramatically in the last ten years, but he was still nowhere near as strong as he should have been. Too pampered a life, he realized, with not enough excuses--pride not withstanding--to do things for himself. He vowed to change that once he got home.

It was early, well before sunrise, but morning absolutions took longer for Charles than they did most people--God only knew why Erik was up already--so once he was out of bed and into his chair, he wheeled himself to the bathroom to get started. With the wall gone, it wasn't nearly so bad a chore as he'd anticipated, but he was still relegated to wetting a cloth and sponge-bathing, the shower stall clearly insurmountable.

The better part of an hour later, he sat in the middle of the room, clean, empty, shaved and dressed. A line of sweat beaded his forehead. His watch read shortly after six. He reached out tentatively with his mind, searching for Erik, meaning to ask if he wanted to get breakfast, but before he got the chance there was a knock on his door, Erik's mind pulsing warmly on the other side.

 _Come in_ , he said into Erik's mind, letting Erik worry about little things like locks and doorknobs.

The door swung open and Erik entered the room, carrying two Styrofoam cups in his hands. He handed one to Charles.

"It's terrible," he said, grimacing around a mouthful from his own cup. He reached into his pocket and withdrew a battered looking bran muffin, wrapped in cellophane. "These are worse."

Charles pressed his lip into a thin line, but accepted the muffin--the bran might prove useful. "Should we get an early start?" he asked. Erik nodded.

It was still nearing their originally intended departure time when they finished checking out and settling how best to pay for damages. The sun was peaking over the horizon when Charles hauled himself up into the Land Rover. With no one else awake, Erik used his powers to stow Charles' chair.

"Hold this," he said when he was finished, passing Charles his helmet through the open window and then circling around to the driver's side.

"Do you think it necessary?" Charles asked once Erik was inside, recoiling from the helmet, even though, up close, it seemed nothing more than a hunk of cold, lifeless metal.

"I think I have no idea who or what this Wolverine is, and more importantly, what he can do. Better safe than sorry," Erik answered, starting the car.

Charles frowned, but accepted the explanation. He held the helmet gingerly, thankful at least that Erik had chosen to forgo the cape--he could just imagine how that would have gone over in a camp full of lumberjacks. If Erik was aware of Charles' discomfort, he ignored it. Wordlessly, he pulled them out onto the freeway, pointed the car towards the camp, and set off. Charles tilted his head back and let the cool autumn air finish what his abandoned coffee had started. He wasn't used to so little sleep. His body ached from a night in a strange bed.

"When we get there, you are to stay in the car. I meant what I said, you can piggy back in my head if you need to, but you're not getting close to this guy," Erik said when they turned off the main road, following the dirt logging track back into the forest.

Charles wanted to argue, to insist on being allowed to help with the search, but he knew from their previous trip that traversing the grounds would be impossible without Erik's help, and he wasn't about to manipulate Erik into doing his bidding--especially not after last night.

"Fine, but if you run into trouble I am stepping in," Charles said. He could already sense Wolverine, his mind as crisp as the morning. If it came down to it, Charles could easily slip past Wolverine's barriers and knock the man down before he realized what was happening.

"I'll be fine," Erik said with a grin, the one that showed all his teeth. This was Erik boasting.

Charles chuckled, feeling that same warm contentedness that he was beginning to associate exclusively with Erik.

The camp was no longer deserted. People milled about the site, processing yesterday's haul, the skeletons of giant maples and oaks, felled without a second thought. Erik parked far enough back to ensure they were out of harm's way, while Charles pushed against any curious eye that glanced in their direction.

"Any idea on where to start looking?" Erik asked. Charles closed his eyes and concentrated.

It was startling to discover just how close Wolverine was, even though Charles had been expecting it. He pointed across the camp, to where a group of about twenty men were loading a flat-bed truck--and how they had got the thing into the bush was a mystery Charles didn't think he'd ever solve.

"He should be over there," he said. Erik nodded, and then was out of the truck, coming around to Charles' window. He motioned for the helmet. "Remind me exactly how I'm supposed to piggyback in your head when you're wearing this?" Charles asked.

Erik hesitated. He looked to the helmet, then back out to where Wolverine and the other men were still loading the truck. It was only about a thousand feet, well within Charles' range, but Charles could tell Erik was uncomfortable going into battle without the helmet.

 _It doesn't have to be a battle,_ Charles conveyed. Erik shook his head, but he relaxed and let his hands drop back to his sides.

"Go on then, get inside," he said, gesturing to his head. Charles smiled and slid neatly, effortlessly into place.

Seeing the world from someone else's eyes was a thrill Charles didn't think he'd ever tire of. This was something he had done before, but not in a very long time. Instead of being in complete control, he was merely a passenger, Erik in charge of where they went and how they got there. Charles could only sit back and enjoy the ride. Still, it was almost irresistible, the desire to seize full control, to take over Erik completely. Charles had to clench his hands into fists and press them against his unfeeling thighs to keep from doing exactly that.

"I'm going to circle around the far trailer, come at them from behind. Less likely to draw attention that way," Erik said--or possibly thought, Charles really couldn't tell as he had already started moving towards the trailers.

It was a measure of how thrilling it was to travel in Erik's head--to feel the ground beneath Erik's feet, to feel the fierce beating of Erik's heart, and to sense the pulsing throb of Erik's power--that Charles didn't notice his visitor until the driver's side door clicked open. Charles started and then turned, seeing double for a minute as he tried to extract himself from Erik's head--circling the trailer now, the men loading the trucks temporarily obscured. When his vision cleared, he found himself face to face with a set of what he thought were knives--until he focused clearly, and then he realized they actually extended from a man's knuckles.

 _Oh, this must be Wolverine_ , Charles thought dumbly. He reached out a tiny thread, meaning only to subdue Wolverine into lowering his defenses, but in addition to being met with resistance--easily broken--he found that his attempts at persuasion merely slid off Wolverine's mind.

For a moment he sat, fairly stunned, as he tried, again and again, to take control of Wolverine's mind, all without success. It struck him at about the same time as Wolverine lunged forward, coming fully into the car, steel claws brushing against Charles' jugular.

Erik's file said Wolverine had spontaneous regeneration, and that meant his mind regenerated, and that meant he was impervious to mind control. Wonderful.

"I don't know who you are, bub, but you're gonna tell me who sent you, or we're gonna have a problem," Wolverine said at the same time that Charles thought, loudly, and with some degree of panic, _Erik, Erik, Erik!_


	10. Chapter 10

In the time it took to circle the trailer, Erik lost sight of Wolverine. He scanned the crowd, glaring at anyone who dared send a questioning glance in his direction. _Damn it_ , he thought, scanning the treeline in case Wolverine had gone back into the bush.

He didn't see him and was about to ask Charles--still a warm, comforting presence in his mind--to do another search when he was flooded with fear and something very close to hysteria. It took Erik several moments to work out that neither sensation belonged to him. He was running long before he heard Charles' panicked calling of _Erik, Erik, Erik!_ , the intensity of it so overwhelming, so loud, that it took all of Erik's willpower to avoid dropping to his knees and cradle his head in his hands.

As soon as the Land Rover came into view, he knew immediately what had happened. The thought of Charles in danger lent him speed and he sprinted across the uneven ground, heart racing in a way it hadn't since he was a young boy and Schmidt had told him to move a coin.

 _Charles! Charles! Tell me you're all right_ , he thought fiercely.

When Charles didn't answer, Erik flung out a hand and reached out with his power. The feel of Wolverine's adamantium immediately flooded his senses, confirming Erik's worst fears. He could feel the tight coil of Wolverine's frame, knew exactly how the man was crouched in the front driver's side seat; could feel the razor sharp blades that extended from Wolverine's knuckles. Without thinking, Erik clenched his outstretched hand and pulled. With a hoarse, surprised yell, Wolverine flew out the driver's side door.

Magneto--and he was Magneto now, infused with power, untouchable in a way Erik could never be--dragged Wolverine across the ground, then lifted him into the air and hurled him back, sending him twenty feet through the air to crash into a tree. The splintering of wood reverberated throughout the clearing. Dozens of heads turned to stare in their direction. Magneto spared them little thought, grabbing two of the trailers and tossing them aimlessly in their direction.

 _Erik, Erik, calm your mind. Calm your mind, Erik. I'm sorry, I'm sorry. I'm fine. I overreacted, please. Please, calm down. Don't hurt them!_

The sound of Charles' voice, even confined within his head, was startling enough to give him pause. Magneto faltered, knees threatening to give way. He stumbled, eyes alighting on Charles' form, whole and unharmed, still inside the Land Rover---though now he was leaning across the seats and hanging his head out the driver's side door. Magneto rushed to his side.

"Tell me you're not hurt," he said, reaching up to cradle Charles' face in his hands. Charles blinked at him, blue eyes growing soft with an emotion Magneto couldn't bring himself to name.

"Oh, Erik. I'm fine. I'm so, so sorry," he said, reaching up to touch Magneto's cheek. His touch burned Magneto to the core, the resulting ache in his heart both unfamiliar and terrifying.

"I... _thought he was going to kill you_ ," Magneto started to say, but he was interrupted by cry, more animal than human. His resolve hardened and he spun quickly to meet a charging Wolverine, Wolverine's claws extended, his features twisted into a snarl.

"Erik," Charles said, aloud this time, but Magneto ignored him, intent only on the animal who had threatened Charles.

He let Wolverine get within two feet, then took control of his skeleton, freezing him in place, spreading both his arms and legs until he resembled a crooked, writhing _X_. With a flick of Magneto's fingers, Wolverine rose into the air. He let out a pained grunt, limbs spreading impossibly wide, Magneto pulling them apart until the popping of bone became audible.

"Erik, stop." This time when Charles spoke, he curled a restraining hand around Magneto's arm. Magneto glanced down at it, annoyed by the interruption, but the sight of Charles' pale fingers, shaking ever so slightly, was enough to send him crashing back into the moment.

He released Wolverine instantly, though still held him loosely in place, unwilling to let the man within a foot of Charles' person. A crowd had gathered, some injured by his flying trailers--oh, God, had he killed anyone? Here in front of Charles? Many carried weapons, though they stood uncertain, as afraid of Wolverine as they were Magneto.

"No one is seriously hurt," Charles said, clearly inside his head. Magneto wanted to be annoyed, but all he could bring himself to think was, _Charles is safe, Charles is safe_.

He deflated instantly when he felt Charles' hands maneuvering him around and he let Charles manhandle him until they were pressed, forehead to forehead. Wolverine still stood behind them, held in place, and the crowd had begun to disperse--no doubt Charles' doing. Magneto's world narrowed to the thin sliver of space between them.

"I'm so sorry," Charles said again. "I was so startled that I lost the connection between us, otherwise I would have told you I was fine. I think Logan and I had a slight misunderstanding. We were in the process of clarifying things when you arrived. I neglected to tell you that I was no longer in danger."

Magneto released a breath, feeling his body calm in steady increments. Slowly his worry drained, then his anger, until Magneto slipped quietly away, leaving a battered, exhausted Erik in his wake.

"There you are," Charles said, pulling back and smiling.

"Sorry," Erik said, but Charles shook his head and said, _Not your fault_.

Embarrassed now--for something he would have taken immense pride in not two weeks ago--Erik stepped back and glanced around the clearing, unwilling to meet Charles' gaze. The men in the camp were steadily working, seemingly oblivious to the scene that had just played out before them--they didn't even seem to notice the upset trailers, though those with injuries were being quietly treated next to a trailer marked with a red cross--and God, Charles' power still gave him chills. Wolverine, who Erik had yet to release, stood at ease, as though by his own volition. He was still snarling, but he seemed wary, having seen what Erik could do. Somewhat reluctantly, Erik turned to address him.

"I'm going to release you now, and you're going to stand down. Then, we're going to have a discussion. Do I make myself clear?" Erik asked, Magneto slipping into his tone.

"Go fuck yourself," Wolverine answered, spitting in Erik's direction. Erik could feel him fighting against his invisible bonds.

An exasperated sigh came from Charles' direction. This was followed by a grunt, and when Erik turned, he was startled to find Charles trying to exit the vehicle.

"Charles," he said, rushing to Charles' side, uncertain what exactly Charles was trying to accomplish--aside from falling flat on his face.

"More helpful would be my chair," Charles said with a pointed look. Erik immediately reached out with his power, opened the trunk and retrieved Charles' chair, placing it gently on the ground beside the door. Charles clambered down gracefully into it.

When he was secure, he wheeled himself forward until he was positioned directly between Erik and Wolverine.

"You can release him now," he said.

Erik let his incredulity show on his face, shoulders becoming tense as he stepped forward to Charles' side. "Absolutely not," he said.

Charles tutted. "Don't be absurd, Erik. This is all a perfect misunderstanding. Logan saw me in the car, recognized me from the bar the other night and made the assumption I was following him--which, granted, I was, but I have explained the coincidence and the reasons for our presence.

"And Logan, I fear when you first entered the car and I found you were impervious to mind control--though I assure you, I meant only to stop you from harming me--I'm afraid I panicked and called out to Erik here, who then thought you intended to harm me."

Charles smiled brightly after finishing his speech, and Erik could tell he expected everyone to immediately put up arms, to forgive and forget and move on, the entire incident an amusing story they would someday laugh over. There were times--a good number of them, especially considering how briefly Erik had known him--when Charles' optimism was frankly alarming.

"Listen, I can't say I care much about why your boyfriend decided to throw me into a tree, but it ain't the sort of thing a man can just kiss and make up from, so here's my deal: You two get the fuck back in your car, drive the fuck back to wherever you came from, and leave me the fuck alone. In exchange, I'll put my claws away. Win, fucking, win."

Wolverine was grinning as he said this, the kind of grin that Erik knew well--the kind of grin he tended to see in the mirror the morning before a bloody battle. Erik tightened his grip on Wolverine's frame. He was about to say something particularly scathing when Charles began speaking.

"We could do that," he said, "and if you want us to leave, we'll leave."

Erik had a slight objection to that, but he kept his mouth shut, wanting to see where Charles was going with this. He'd implied earlier that Wolverine was impervious to mind control, which meant hand-waving his cooperation was out of the question.

"Or," Charles continued, "you'll let us buy you breakfast, we'll have a short but pleasant conversation, and in exchange I'll see if I can do something about retrieving some of your missing memories."

Had Wolverine not been frozen in place, Erik expected he would have lunged forward. His entire posture changed, becoming stiffer, poised for action. The amused smirk on his face was gone, replaced by a look of anger and suspicion so familiar Erik felt like he was looking in a mirror.

Against his will, he found himself stepping closer to Charles, not wanting Charles anywhere near this man, though for entirely different reasons.

"I can assure you I had nothing to do with your amnesia, Logan," Charles said. "I can't coerce your mind, but I can still read it, and there are gaping holes that can only be attributed to memory loss. I can't retrieve those--I suspect they are gone forever--but there are buried memories, supressed memories that survived whatever happened to you. I can retrieve those and give you a picture, however incomplete, of who you are. All I'm asking in return is a conversation. To paraphrase; win, fucking, win."

Erik wasn't sure what was more alarming; the fact that he'd somehow lost control of this entire situation, or the fact that the word _fucking_ had just passed over Charles' lips. He sounded so entirely proper, consonants enunciated so that the k took on a sharp, lingering sound. Erik felt the word settle around him, wrapping him in layers of heat that left him flushed and wanting.

"I get my memories, and breakfast, all for a little talk? You ain't hard to please, are you," Wolverine said and when Erik glanced over he was smiling. Had Erik hackles, they would have been standing on end.

"Excellent. Release him, Erik," Charles said, already moving his chair around to the passenger side door. Erik hesitated briefly, watching Charles go before turning back to meet Wolverine's level gaze.

"If you even look at him cross-eyed, I am going to rip that metal of yours out, piece by piece," Erik said, releasing his hold on Wolverine's skeleton. Wolverine dropped, his shoulders relaxing as he reacquainted himself with gravity. Erik ignored him, climbed into the driver's side door, stowed Charles' chair with a flick of his wrist, and then started the car. He didn't bother checking to see if Wolverine had made it into the backseat before pulling away, though Charles' lack of protest told Erik he had.

~*~

The diner Logan directed them to was just off Route 28 and made some of the best coffee Charles had drank in his life. He was three cups in, Logan just finishing his second stack of pancakes, before Charles cleared his throat, hoping to dispel some of the awkward silence that had permeated both the drive and breakfast so far.

"Erik, I think perhaps we should start by letting Logan see that file of yours," he said.

Erik glanced over sharply--he'd been alternating between watching out the window and casting wary, annoyed glances in Logan's direction. "That's Brotherhood property," he said.

Charles scowled. Logan's arrival on the scene had put a strain on the easy, flirtatious camaraderie that had grown between them. The man who sat next to Charles was not the same man Charles had wanted to invite into his bed the night before. He wasn't Magneto--Charles had seen enough of him earlier--but rather some amalgamation of the two, Magneto's austerity tempered by Erik's suspicion and uncertainty.

It was clear Erik saw Logan as a threat--though to what, Charles couldn't say. He sat too close, elbow constantly brushing Charles' as they ate, his lip curling in distaste every time Logan so much as glanced in Charles' direction. Charles was coming dangerously close to breaking his promise not to read Erik's mind. Surely Erik didn't still believe Logan intended to kill him. Charles had been inside Logan's head. It was hardly the sort of thing he would miss.

"I do realize that, but perhaps if Logan understands why we were looking for him, he'd be better able to help us now." And they did need his help, because from what little Charles had glimpsed Logan was carrying information that might just change the face of human-mutant relations forever.

Erik looked skeptical, but he gave a resigned sigh and stood from the table. "Don't give me a reason to kill you," he said to Wolverine before he left. In response, Wolverine offered a sarcastic smile. Charles shook his head.

"I apologize. He's not usually like that." Except, from everything Charles had heard about Magneto before actually meeting him, Magneto was exactly like that. Why Charles was an exception was something Charles didn't want to think about--not now, in front of Logan, when he couldn't blush and didn't want to be caught wearing a ridiculous grin.

"Your boyfriend's got some issues." Logan shrugged. He didn't seem particularly concerned by Erik's dislike, even knowing Erik could tear him to pieces without a second thought.

There was more Charles wanted to say, but Erik slid silently back into his seat, manila folder tucked under his arm. He handed it over wordlessly and then shifted his chair closer to where Charles' sat.

It struck Charles suddenly, what Erik was doing, warmth filling his chest despite the ridiculousness of it. He was tempted to call Erik on it, but instead found himself smiling softly, feeling more certain by the minute of exactly what it was that was building between them.

Across the table, Logan flipped methodically through Erik's file, eyes wide, mouth twisted into a grimace. He said nothing, but his thoughts were a tangle of angry resentment. He'd raged against his amnesia, but this; this was far worse. Seeing his life written in black and white, discovering he was little more than a military experiment, was pushing Logan into dangerous territory. Without thinking, Charles sent a tendril of calm in his direction, only to have it bounce back--he'd forgotten that wouldn't work. Unfortunately, Logan, who had obviously been trained against telepaths--though he held no conscious memory of such a thing--reacted violently to the attempt.

He stood abruptly, chair tipping back behind him, and Charles knew without a doubt that this was too much for him to process. He was going to bolt--it might take years before he was ready to handle the things he had read. Charles should have known--should have seen this coming, but he had miscalculated. He had wanted to do this slowly, over the course of days, possibly even months, but there was no time for it now. He dove into Logan's mind--a gross violation of every ethic he still clung to--and began sifting through memory after memory, keeping as many from Logan as he could; though the process was too fast for Charles to fully control, and dozens of memories burst, floating into Logan's consciousness until he was on the floor, clutching his head between his hands.

Charles should have stopped--would have stopped ten years ago when he'd still been capable of hoping eternally for the goodness in all people--but Logan knew things, had information, dangerous information, that Charles was desperate to get. He had seen enough of it the first time he'd brushed Logan's mind and knew they couldn't let Logan leave without retrieving it. The safety of mutantkind depended on it.

Next to him, Erik sat, stock still, staring between Logan and Charles. It was obvious he was only vaguely aware of what was happening, but he didn't interfere, and Charles could have kissed him for extending such trust--though it was entirely possibly Erik had no real objection to Charles causing Logan pain.

Logan was howling now, the entire diner standing with mouths agape, frozen in place where Charles had caught them. He needed time, and having the local law enforcement show up now would have been to all their detriment.

 _Logan, please, I'm sorry_ , Charles thought, wishing he could ease this process. He'd unlocked a dam now, and images flooded both his and Logan's sense. This was what he had glimpsed, what he was looking for. Before Logan's amnesia, before he was cast off as a failed experiment, Logan had been privy to some of Stryker's plans; plans that, even at a glimpse, had been terrifying. Seeing them now in their entirety, Charles was shaken to his very core.

He sensed the change in Logan's mind before he knew entirely what it meant. Logan's animal side was claiming dominance, rendering Charles' telepathy useless--his telepathy had never worked on animals. Charles lost the connection-- _too soon, too soon, his mind shouted_ \--and at the same time Logan let out a tremendous roar and surged forward, claws extending. He got close enough to draw blood before Erik caught him, the sharp points of his blades pressing against Charles' windpipe.

"I warned you," Erik said to Logan, and Charles could sense he was about to do something stupid.

"Erik, don't. That was my fault. Just hold him until he calms down," Charles said, and to his surprise Erik listened--though his hesitance was obvious.

He stood Logan's seat upright and then sat Logan back on it, positioning him into a parody of a man enjoying his brunch, something that seemed to amuse Erik to no end. Charles breathed a sigh of relief and reached up to touch his throat, his fingers coming away bloody. When Erik noticed, he immediately reached for his paper napkin, wet it in his water glass, and pressed it against the wound.

"It's not that bad," Charles said, realizing only then that he still held the entire diner captive. Too late he knew that they should have found a more private location for their conversation.

He released the patrons and wiped the last few minutes of their memories, families and truck drivers and couples all simultaneously reclaiming their seats and going back to their--now cold--breakfasts. The kitchen would undoubtedly receive dozens of complaints.

"It's bad enough," Erik said, dabbing at the wound now. There was gentleness in his touch that made Charles shiver, despite the severity of the situation.

"My friend," Charles said, "I'm fine." He brought his hand to Erik's and delicately retrieved the now blood-spotted napkin from his grasp. Erik seemed disinclined to relinquish it, but his fingers fell open and, after a moment's hesitation, he set his hands back down on the gingham covered tabletop.

The echo of Erik's thoughts--and they were so loud now Charles couldn't help but hear them--were focused entirely on wanting to simultaneously kill Logan while bundling Charles out of harm's way. It would have been touching, were Charles not disinclined to violence. Charles ignored Erik as best he could, and turned his attention to Logan, whose mind was still reeling from everything he had seen. He had calmed enough that Charles could once again read his thoughts, though nowhere near enough for Erik to release him.

"Logan, you have my most sincere apologies. Under normal circumstances, I would never do what I did to you," Charles said. It was not an excuse, or even an explanation, and Charles knew he would forever feel guilt for what he had done. This moment would follow him to his grave.

"I can still help you," he continued. "I can help you process all of this, and retrieve the things that are still buried, but I won't without your express permission." Not again, he didn't say.

He watched as Logan slowly came back to himself, expression still pained, his anger a seething, ugly thing that loomed behind him. His lip curled back into a snarl. The look was starting to get familiar.

"What the hell did you do to me?" he asked, voice hoarse and broken, like he'd only just learned to use it. Charles wanted to hang his head. Instead he lifted his chin and met Logan's eye.

"I accessed your memories and unlocked them, too many, too fast, but I was looking for something in particular and I couldn't find it." It was no excuse--there was no excuse. Even Erik seemed to know this. He was staring at Charles as though he'd never seen him before.

"And did you?" Logan asked, and it was clear, had Erik not been holding him, he still would have lunged across the table and slit Charles' throat.

"Yes." Charles didn't elaborate--couldn't elaborate. The last thing he wanted to do was call up any one particular memory. Right now there were dozens--hundreds maybe--floating around, newly freed, and Logan would need to sort through each, put them in their appropriate place. Bringing one to the forefront now could be as dangerous as what Charles had just done.

"Win-fucking-lose, then," Logan said. His desire to maim, possibly kill Charles was ebbing, so Charles reached over to touch the inside of Erik's wrist. He stroked a smooth circle across Erik's flesh, conveying with his mind that Erik should release the man. For a minute, he thought Erik might argue, but then Logan twitched, his jaw clenching and unclenching as he regained the use of his body. He stood swiftly.

"I think we're done here," he said. Charles watched him walk towards the exit, letting him get to the door before he spoke into Logan's mind. He shared only a single piece of information--his address--in hopes that Logan might change him mind, might seek Charles out and allow Charles to make amends for the hurt he had caused.

"Well, that went well," Erik said once he was gone, but his tone betrayed his pleasure at seeing the man's back. "What the hell did you do to him?" he asked.

It was not shame that stayed Charles' tongue--though he was deeply ashamed--but rather the more pressing matter of what he had seen in Logan's mind.

"Erik, I want you to remain calm," Charles said, the statement earning him Erik's complete attention. Charles exhaled. "Stryker has developed and designed a device, a collar, whose express purpose is to restrict and control a mutant's powers."

Erik paled, his eyes widening. He released a breath, the look of alarmed surprise shifting to one of hard determination. He pressed his lip into a thin line and shook his head.

"It's starting, Charles. It's starting," he said.


	11. Chapter 11

"Don't you dare," Erik said when it looked like Charles might balk. "Don't you dare let your pacifism blind you to this. This is a threat, Charles--a very real, very immediate threat."

It was bound to happen sooner or later, Erik knew, the differences in their ideologies--and there were many--coming to a head. For a moment it looked as though Charles might argue--he sat, back ramrod straight, hands curled around his armrests, fingers white with tension. His features wavered on indecision. He bit his lower lip, glanced out the window after Wolverine, and then turned his attention back to Erik.

"No, you're right. This is serious," he said, and Erik was overwhelmed by relief--because he honestly didn't think he could fight against Stryker and Charles at the same time; certainly he didn't want to fight against Charles ever.

"Then we need to go," Erik said, reaching for his wallet and pulling out a wad of cash, enough to pay for their meals twice over.

"I need a few minutes," Charles said, sounding embarrassed, though Erik could have told him it was unnecessary.

"I have to a make a phone call anyway. I'll meet you outside," Erik said, nodding to the diner's payphone. Charles' smile was tinged with gratitude as he pushed himself away from the table. He grabbed the bag he carried pretty much everywhere they went and wheeled towards the restrooms. Erik retrieved the file Wolverine had left behind, and then headed outside.

He called Mystique, despite the time difference, the information too important to leave until his return. She accepted the charges as soon as she realized it was him--and Erik spared a brief, amused thought to having had to make a collect call.

"Are you kidding me?" Mystique said once the line connected. "Where the hell have you been? And if you say with Xavier, I'm going to kill you."

"We don't have time for this right now," Erik said, feeling displaced for the first time since arriving on Charles' doorstep. In two and a half days he'd somehow forgotten what it meant to be Magneto; what it meant to command the Brotherhood. "I found Wolverine, and Charles..."

"Charles?" There were days--and today was one of them--when Erik seriously wanted to throttle Mystique.

"Yes, Charles. Charles took a look around inside his head and discovered something Stryker's working on. It's a weapon--a device that controls of a mutant's powers."

Mystique had fallen silent and Erik could tell she was thoroughly terrified. He didn't blame her; the thought sent chills down his spine.

"Drop everything you're working on. Recruit as many people into this as you need. As soon as I get into New York, I'm on the next plane out. When I get back, I want to know everything there is to know about this device, how it works, and how we're going to stop it." It was easy to slip back into the role of command now that he had such an important task to focus on. He could almost sense Mystique squaring her shoulders, standing to attention.

"And the Wolverine?" she asked. Erik scowled. If he never saw the man again it would be too soon.

"An exhausted lead, and no longer a threat," Erik said. Unless of course he decided to take exception to Charles' treatment of him, but they'd worry about that another day--beside, Charles would be perfectly safe inside Genosha's capital compound. "Can I count on you to get this done?"

"Yes, sir," Mystique said, and then she was gone and if Erik knew her as well as he thought he did she was already setting the wheels in motion. Stryker was as good as dead.

Erik hung up the phone just as Charles emerged from the restroom. Erik nodded in his direction, tilting his head towards the Land Rover. Charles wheeled his way across the parking lot.

They met at the passenger's side door. "Is everything all right?" Charles asked. Erik nodded, waited for Charles to climb into the truck before stowing his chair--a task that was beginning to feel intimately familiar. Once it was secure, Erik climbed into the driver's side and they were off.

The drive back to Westchester felt like it should have been made in tense silence. Instead Erik listened as Charles detailed the rest of what he'd pulled from Wolverine's mind--and that Charles could do that, pull apart a man's mind, rendering him incapacitated by memory alone, was terrifying, especially to someone like Erik; it was probably a very good thing he had already given Charles his absolute trust, because that was the sort of thing that might make a man doubt.

It was obvious Wolverine knew little of the project, save what he had overheard by simply being in the right place at the right time. Still, he knew enough to know that the project was in the late stages of development. If Charles was right, they had at best a few months before Stryker's collars were put into circulation. How long, Erik wondered, before the whole of mutantkind was rounded up and rendered defenseless, all in the name of public safety. Erik had lived through one holocaust; he wasn't about to endure a second.

Mid-afternoon they stopped outside Newburgh to refuel. The sky was beginning to grow overcast, dark grey clouds threatening rain. The warmth of the past few days had vanished with the change in the wind, so Erik dug his coat out of his bag.

"Did you bring a jacket?" he asked Charles, feeling strangely disappointed when Charles' nodded. Without leaving the front seat, Charles pulled a jacket from his bag and slipped it on. It was the same tweed Charles had worn the first time they'd met. Erik felt a warm surge of nostalgia settle in his stomach at the sight.

Feeling marginally warmer--though wishing for his cape, which was heavy wool and more comfortable than any article of clothing Erik had ever owned--Erik bought cellophane wrapped sandwiches that were as stale as they were suspect from the gas station and gave one to Charles. He climbed back into the truck. The second half of the drive was made in near silence, Charles dozing lightly as they emerged from tree-lined freeways, into the open expanses of civilization.

It was fast approaching evening when they finally made it back to Charles' estate. Charles still slept soundly in his seat, head listing against the glass of his closed window. Erik hated to wake him, he seemed so serene in that moment, so utterly fragile, but they didn't have time for pleasantries like sleep--and besides, Charles could always sleep on the plane.

"Hey," he said, shaking Charles lightly. A stray strand of hair had fallen into Charles' eyes. Erik brushed it aside, letting his fingers trail down Charles' cheek in a caress. God, how he wished they had just one more night.

Charles came awake more slowly than Erik would have liked, but there was something endearing in knowing Charles trusted him enough to succumb to so deep a sleep. He blinked several times, staring at Erik in awkward confusion before he remembered where he was. Erik watched, amused, as he shook himself fully awake.

"Have we arrived?" he asked.

"Yes," Erik said. "But we can't stay long. You'll have to pack quickly I'm afraid."

The confusion in Charles' eyes seemed born entirely of sleep, so Erik didn't think to question it, not until Charles asked, "Pack?"

Erik frowned. "I suppose we can acquire anything you might need in Genosha, but I figured you'd want your own things," he said. He didn't wait for a reply, already moving out of the car to retrieve Charles' chair and bring it alongside the passenger side door.

Charles opened the door and made eye contact, face a picture of startled surprise.

"Genosha? Why am I going to Genosha?" he asked. Erik faltered.

It hadn't occurred to him that Charles might not want to come to Genosha. Surely with the information Charles gleaned from Wolverine he would want to be involved in this, and where better than Genosha, where Erik already had an entire army awaiting his command? Was he afraid himself limited without Cerebro?

"I know Cerebro's here, and would likely prove useful, but trust me, I have far more extensive resources in Genosha, and if we need to, we can build you a replica," Erik said, already making plans for the clearing out one of the training rooms to make room for a second Cerebro.

Charles continued to stare at him, gobsmacked expression on his face. He shook his head slightly, eyes still wide as he climbed down into his chair. Once he was secure, he made eye contact with Erik, his entire being radiating resignation.

"Erik, I'm not coming to Genosha. I can't just hop on a plane without notice. I'm not sure if I can hop on a plane period," he said, and Erik didn't miss the brief flicker of panic that clouded his eyes.

Erik could do nothing but stare, the bottom of his stomach falling out as his chest constricted painfully. It had not occurred to him that this is where they would part ways. Damn Stryker for forcing his hand; for getting in the way of what was easily becoming the most significant relationship of Erik's life.

"Charles," Erik said, stepping forward, crouching until they were at eye level. "I can't do this without you. You know how important this is, but more than that, I want you there, at my side."

There was no clearer way he could say it, but Charles showed no signs of being swayed--if anything, he looked profoundly disappointed; that and slightly hurt, which confused Erik to no end. The expression lasted only a minute--gone so fast Erik could almost convince himself he'd imagined it--replaced by blank indifference. To see such a thing on Charles' face was as alarming as it was unnatural.

"I agree this is important, and I will coordinate with you from here, but as I've mentioned before, I have no interest in joining the Brotherhood. I'm sorry if you thought I had changed my mind."

It took Erik several seconds to figure out what Charles was talking about--and was that really what he thought Erik had meant? Erik shook his head, leaned into Charles' space and placed his hand on Charles' shoulder.

"I'm not asking you to join the Brotherhood," he said. Charles shot him a confused glance. "I'm asking you to stand at _my_ side. And just in case I haven't made my intentions clear," and God, how Charles could have missed it, what with everything they had been through, "let me make them perfectly clear."

It was startling to see Charles' eyes widen from so close a vantage point. Erik was momentarily lost to their blue, distracted only by the sight of Charles' pink tongue, peaking out to absently lick at his lips. Lust surged in Erik at the sight, boiling his blood and hardening his cock. God, but he had wanted to do this for so long--from the moment they met, if he was honest with himself.

He offered a slight quirk of his lip when he got close enough to lose focus, Charles' eyes falling shut, his entire body melting under Erik's touch--one hand to his cheek, the one on Charles' shoulder sliding to the back of his neck. It was incredible, how slowly their lips slid together, the slide of moist nerves against moist nerves the most erotic thing Erik had ever experienced. Kissing Charles--finally, finally, his mind shouted--was something he didn't think he would ever grow tired of. Certainly it was something he would never get enough of. The entire world fell away--the Brotherhood, Wolverine, Stryker--Erik's universe narrowing to the single point of contact. Charles was warm against him, the soft press of his lips, along with the desire for more--oh, God, more--the only thing occupying Erik's mind.

Pulling away was almost painful, but it was either that or take Charles right here, and Erik was many things, but he was not a brute. Charles' eyes were still closed, but they slid open when Erik moved the hand on his cheek, thumb brushing against the ridge of Charles' cheekbone. He looked utterly wrecked. Pride surged in Erik's chest at the sight.

"Clear?" Erik asked. Charles blinked owlishly before answering.

"Um, yes, yes. Good. Good." He smiled, colour staining his cheeks in a way that Erik found entirely too endearing.

"I can't stay, Charles," and he couldn't, Stryker's threat too real, too immediate, "but think about it."

He wanted to say so much more than that, to beg Charles to come with him, but Charles needed to do this on his own terms--and if Erik was thinking clearly, he would have realized long ago that Charles would need more than a few minutes' notice.

"I..." It delighted Erik to see Charles so flustered. If Erik had known, he would have kissed him days ago. "Okay, yes. I... Can you just..."

"Can I just what?" Erik asked, smirking.

"Kiss me again," Charles said, smiling crookedly. Erik was happy to comply. He closed the distance between them and pressed a firm, though entirely too chaste kiss against Charles' lips. When he pulled back, Charles' smile had grown soft.

"Genosha, think about it," Erik said, loathe to leave, but he knew if he didn't get back to New York soon, he would miss all the flights into Genosha. He told himself that Charles would come, and even if he didn't, Erik would return--just as soon as Stryker was dealt with.

Withdrawing from Charles' space was still the most painful thing he had ever done. Charles watched him, uncertainty and regret warring with a look of utter contentment.

"Think about it," Erik said one last time, before retrieving his things from the Land Rover and crossing the laneway to where his stolen sports car was still parked.

"Erik," Charles said when he got there. Erik turned to find Charles watching him with a bemused smile. His lips were swollen cherry red. Erik swallowed heavily, and then lifted an eyebrow. "Don't forget to return the car."

It was such a Charles thing to say that Erik couldn't help but laugh. He inclined his head, a silent promise, then climbed into the car and drove away, lips still moist with Charles' spit.

~*~

For several long minutes after Erik had left, Charles sat in the lane, staring after him. His lips were no longer kiss-swollen, but his heart still raced in his chest, his entire body taut with desire and something he hadn't felt in far, far too long--if ever, he thought.

The day had grown cold, and even in his jacket Charles was chilled. He turned to head into the house--Thompson could retrieve his things from the car and return it to the garage--when Hank appeared, bowling out the front door. His face was twisted into a snarl, his hackles raised. Charles had never seen him so angry.

"Where is he?" Hank asked, looking around for Erik.

"On his way back to New York," Charles answered, tilting his head. He was tired, and heart sore, but he had promised to allow Hank to yell at him as soon as he got back, and since he was still feeling marginally guilty for manipulating Hank's mind, he figured he owed him that much.

"Good," Hank said, deflating somewhat, but it was obvious he was still furious. Charles maneuvered around him and headed into the house. He needed a glass of scotch, possibly a warm fire before they had this conversation.

And Hank, good old Hank, who knew Charles so well, allowed him that. He followed a pace behind, letting Charles lead them into the study, where Hank set a fire blazing while Charles poured drinks.

"Thank you for this," Charles said once he was seated before the fire, the chill of the day leeching out of his bones.

"I'm not sure what I'm angrier about," Hank said. He had set his untouched drink down on Charles' chess set--newly set; Erik must have done so before coming to find him the other night. "That you took off, God knows where, with Magneto of all people, or that you used your telepathy to manipulate me into letting you." Hank shook his head. Charles realized then that he owed this man more than just an apology.

It was almost a shame he wasn't sorry--not about the leaving, anyway.

"I'm sorry I manipulated you. That wasn't the way to go about doing this. I should have heard your objections. It wouldn't have changed my decision--I always would have gone--but I at least owed you the right to object." It was the best he could offer, and he knew Hank well enough to know that he would be forgiven. Hank was as solitary as he was and they both valued their friendship tremendously.

Hank's eyes had grown watery, soft in a way that made him seem far, far younger than he was--in that moment he looked the very picture of the young graduate student who had first come to Charles, looking for answers to what he had called a condition. Charles had been the first to accept him with open arms, and without judgement.

"I just don't understand what it is you see in that man," he said.

And how did Charles answer that? How could he possibly sum up all the things he saw in Erik--all the things he wanted from Erik, never mind that most of those things were still illegal in the state of New York.

"I'm sorry, Hank, but it's really none of your business." And it wasn't, Charles told himself firmly. As much as he valued Hank's friendship, his companionship, and even his assistance, Charles' love-life had never been Hank's business.

In hindsight, it was probably the worst thing Charles could have said, because Hank knew him better than most, so he instantly put the pieces together. His eyes grew comically wide and his mouth fell open, pointed teeth glinting in the firelight.

"You're dating Magneto?" he said, rising from his chair to loom over Charles. Incredulity shone in his eyes and his features were stuck between horror and revulsion. Charles squared his shoulders, intending to contradict Hank's assumption, but as soon as he thought it, the memory of Erik's kiss, slow, lingering and full of intention, resurfaced in Charles' thoughts. He blushed instead.

"As I said, the nature of _Erik_ and my relationship is none of your business," Charles settled on saying.

Hank was gaping now, clearly distressed. Charles sighed, not particularly wanting to have this discussion. He wanted to bathe; to sleep in his own bed, so that he could wake up rested and make a decision about whether or not he was capable of getting on a plane--driving across state was one thing, but flying halfway around the world was something else entirely, and Charles wasn't sure if he was ready for that yet.

But Hank wasn't done; Charles could hear the countless protests that cycled through his thoughts. Waiting for Hank to settle on one, Charles drained his scotch and then reached across to the chess set to claim Hank's.

"Charles," Hank said, speaking softly now. "This is Magneto we're talking about. He's killed people, Charles."

Of course Charles knew that--it was impossible not to know that--and maybe he'd decided not to focus on that--didn't want to focus on that--but Erik had done a lot of good, too, and besides, were Charles the sort of person to believe in retribution, then he would have to admit that every single person who had died by Erik's hand deserved death.

That argument wouldn't fly with Hank--two weeks ago it wouldn't have flown with Charles--so Charles kept his mouth shut, knowing there was no way he could win this argument; knowing too that in all likelihood his burgeoning relationship with Erik might very well cost him his oldest--and these days only--friend. The weight of that settled heavily in his chest.

"Does that not bother you?" Hank pressed.

Yes, Charles wanted to say, but the truth was it bothered him less than he'd expected it would.

"People can change," he settled on saying and that, at least, was true.

Hank's features drooped at that, his entire being deflating. He looked to where he'd left his scotch, noticing then that Charles had claimed it--had drained it within seconds of it reaching his hand. He shook his head, but even Charles' drinking--something that Charles knew Hank despised--could not distract him from his turmoil.

"You barely know him," he said, another truth, and yet, spending time in Erik's presence, he felt like he had known the man his entire life; like they were two bookends of the same soul.

Another thing he couldn't very well tell Hank. Charles settled on shrugging and saying, "If we shied away from the people we barely knew we would all be eternally alone."

Something shifted in Hank's expression and he brought his hands to his mouth, sliding his face down until his head was cradled in his palms. After a moment, he glanced back up, meeting Charles' gaze.

"You're in love with him, aren't you?" he said.

Hearing it out loud was startling--especially since Charles hadn't yet considered that possibility. Was he in love with Erik? It wasn't something he wasn't ready to think about. Not yet. He needed time to process, the last two days a blur. Sitting now, safely ensconced in his study, Charles realized exactly what it was he had done.

The reality of it was terrifying--oh, God, had he really left his house, travelled halfway across the state, and then spent the night in a motel of all places? The tightness in his chest that had manifested upon Erik's leaving tightened now, stealing his breath. Charles clutched at his chest, his breath coming in shuddering gasps. Hank was at his side in seconds, worry written across his face, his tone urgent as he called Charles' name. Charles wanted to tell him not to worry, that it would pass, that it was only a panic attack, but he had passed over into hyperventilating, the edges of his vision growing grey.

He knew enough to know that he would not succumb to unconsciousness, but he was still unaware of the next few minutes. When next he came back to himself, he was laid out in the spare room that sat adjacent to the study--an easier bed for Charles to get to when late nights kept him at his desk. Hank was standing near the closed door while Ms. Carter, his resident nurse, calmly checked his pulse.

"How long?" Charles asked, not particularly wanting the answer.

"Ten minutes, no more," Ms. Carter answered. She tucked his arm back against his side. "I expect you to rest tonight, because it's also clear you've been neglecting your physio, and that means tomorrow we'll be doing two sets."

Charles shuddered, Ms. Carter a sadist when it came to physio. It was almost a shame she was the only nurse he'd been able to find who was actually willing to live in a remote, dusty old mansion with a paraplegic agoraphobe and a blue-furred mutant who constantly quoted Victorian literature at her.

"This is my fault," Hank announced into the silence, sounding guilt-stricken. Charles opened his mouth to reassure him, but before he could Ms. Carter's features softened and she moved away from the bedside to grip Hank's arm.

"It was no one's fault," she said.

"Thank you, Linda," Hank said, ducking his head when the hand on his arm lingered. Charles felt his attention sharpen and he reached out with his telepathy, touching their minds to confirm what he was seeing. The unexpectedness of it made him smile.

Naturally he ruined it by struggling to sit; an action that instantly diverted Ms. Carter's attention. She arrived at his side and, ignoring Hank's protests, helped Charles into a seated position. Charles smiled at her, grateful, though not for the help--seeing them, hearing them, had settled all of his doubts. He made his decision.

"I know the timing is awful," Charles said, "but we need to make arrangements to travel to Genosha, all three of us, immediately."

The blank looks he got in return were better than the vocal objections he was expecting, so Charles smiled widely and tried to look more confident than he actually felt.

~*~

After New York, Genosha was too warm. Erik stared out the long arch of windows that circled the back half of his office, the picture perfect scene the most depressing thing he thought he'd ever seen.

He'd been like this since his arrival--since he boarded a plane in New York if he was honest with himself. He missed Charles. He'd been back not quite thirty-six hours and already he missed Charles. How the hell was he expected to function like this? Too late he realized that he should have discounted Charles' objections and brought him to Genosha anyway--even if it had meant kidnapping the man.

It didn't help that they were stalled on intel collection. No one could locate Stryker or the location of his new facility--and they had tried. All of Erik's leads had dried up. All of Mystique's investigations had fizzled, most before they'd even started. They were running in circles, trying and failing to find anything that might pinpoint where Stryker was and what, exactly, he was doing. Erik had never been so frustrated in his life.

He hadn't spoken to Charles. He wanted to--wanted to call, or stray into a shared dream where he could follow that kiss to its natural conclusion. It didn't happen. Most of his days were spent wearing the helmet--and oh, how he was coming to hate the thing--and his nights were spent tossing and turning in a room shielded from telepaths--and damn Emma for not being trustworthy, because otherwise Erik wouldn't feel the need to shield himself from telepaths.

Exhausted in ways he couldn't remember ever being, Erik eased the helmet off his head--his office another room safeguarded from those who might seek to usurp his leadership--and turned to stare at the telephone. He had five minutes--ample time to call Charles--but it was approaching one o'clock in the morning in New York and the last thing he wanted to do was wake Charles from his much needed sleep--God knew one of them ought to be sleeping, and it certainly wasn't Erik.

A knock on the door startled him from the thought. Erik's heart lodged in his throat at the sound, but it wasn't Charles--why he had thought it might be Erik didn't know--the door swinging open without his leave, Mystique slipping into the room.

"Anything?" Erik asked.

"Another dead end," Mystique replied. She closed the door firmly behind her, cocking her head as she considered him.

"Are you all right?" she asked.

Erik was tempted to lie--wanted to lie--but this was Mystique and she knew him better than anyone, and more importantly, she was the closest thing he had to a friend in this place. Erik crossed over to his desk and sank heavily into his chair.

"Not particularly," he said.

Mystique took his cue and claimed one of the chairs that faced his desk.

"This isn't just about Stryker, is it?" she asked. Erik didn't need to answer--it was there, written in his face, and when Mystique drew a shaky breath, he knew she had found it.

"You've gone and fallen in love. You complete idiot," she said, but she was smiling, seeming well pleased by the turn of events.

Erik didn't bother denying it; there was no point. If he hadn't known it when he left, he knew it now, two days without Charles making it painfully obvious.

Mystique's expression turned to one of sympathy. She leaned forward in her chair, reached across the desk and patted his hand. "He'll come," she said. "He'll come."

Erik hoped she was right.


	12. Chapter 12

Magneto glared across his desk at the two women standing defiantly before him. Mystique he could forgive--she had never held any qualms about standing up to him, and now that she knew about Charles she was more inclined to mock him than fear him--but the sight of Emma Frost, resplendent in white, her head thrown back defiantly and staring him down like he was a common bully was too much to bear.

"Have I not made myself clear?" he said, holding Emma's gaze until she visibly flinched and looked away. Mystique made an exasperated sound.

"It's not like you don't want to see him again, so I don't particularly see what the problem is. We can't find Stryker. We've tried. But maybe with Cerebro Xavier can," she said.

It was not that Magneto didn't see her point--as far as plans went, it was a good one, and since Charles had already offered his assistance, they would hardly need to worry about him refusing. The problem was that Erik had promised not to bring the Brotherhood into Charles' life and this--bringing Emma Frost within a mile of him--would be doing exactly that. There was also the small, petty part of him that wanted to keep Charles all to himself--like the Brotherhood used to be, before it spun out of control and became an entity onto itself.

"We haven't exhausted all of our leads," Magneto said, except that they rather had, and at this point they were growing desperate.

It was entirely possible that had Mystique approached Magneto alone he would have instantly agreed to make the necessary arrangements. Emma Frost complicated things, though. She was a fiercely talented woman--not just as a telepath, but as a business woman as well--but she had her own agenda and Magneto had never been able to divine exactly what that agenda was. Better to keep her as far from Charles as he could manage. It was bad enough the Brotherhood needed her--if they hadn't, Magneto would have killed her years ago.

"Erik," Mystique tried, but at Magneto's sharp look, she faltered. "Magneto, surely this isn't too much to ask. You said he wanted to help."

Had it only been yesterday that Mystique sat across this very desk, a friend and confidant rather than an obstinate subordinate?

"And if Professor Xavier decides to help, it'll be on his terms, and at my request," Magneto said. Mystique looked like she planned on arguing. Emma still stood, statue still, fury warming her usually cold features. He was about to kick them both out when the phone in the centre of his desk rang.

Magneto glanced to it, then back to Emma and Mystique. Only three people in the world had its number, and two of them were standing before him.

"Get out," he told them, and at least Mystique picked up on his reasons for wanting them gone--which, of course, meant Emma knew as well, because unlike Charles she never respected a person's boundaries.

"Get out," he said again, louder this time, more than willing to hurl them out if they didn't cooperate. Fortunately, they seemed to recognize the gravity of his mood, because they left of their own volition. Magneto waited until the door closed firmly behind them to lock it with his power. He reached up to remove his helmet, and then answered the phone.

"Yes, I'll accept the charges," he said automatically, expecting the voice of an operator.

"Awfully kind of you, though I'm afraid entirely unnecessary," came Charles' voice through the line.

He hadn't realized just how miserable he'd been until he heard Charles' voice, Erik's mood shifting instantly. He smiled brightly, pulled his chair toward him by the metal in its legs, and then sat, leaning back while cradling the phone against his cheek.

"Hello, Charles," he said, knowing he sounded entirely too warm; entirely too pleased. He could almost picture Charles' answering smile.

"Hello, Erik," Charles returned just as warmly. Erik scolded himself for not having mustered the courage to call sooner. He was a fool to go so long without hearing Charles' voice.

"Tell me you're coming," he said before he could stop himself. There was no point in prevaricating--he wanted Charles here and, more importantly, he wanted Charles to know it.

The silence on the other end of the line filled Erik with disappointment. His heart sank, even as he began contemplating how he could manage running the Brotherhood from Westchester.

"Actually," Charles finally said, "I'm at the airport." Erik's thoughts ground to a halt. He sat forward intently, genuine smile spreading across his face.

"What time does your flight leave?" he asked, trying to calculate what time it was in New York; thoughts spinning through flight schedules and flight times so that he would know exactly how long he would be forced to wait until he could see Charles again.

There was another long pause. Erik frowned, wondering if it was the connection. A moment later, Charles' voice again filled the line.

"Um, no, I mean I'm at your airport. In Genosha," he said. Erik stood abruptly. He was glad he was alone in his office, because he was certain he must look like a fish, gaping as he was--and apparently even now Charles was still capable of turning him completely on his head.

"I'll send a car," Erik said when he could manage speaking again. He was already pushing the intercom button, calling Rogue into his office.

"Oh. Out of curiosity, how long exactly will that take?" Charles let out a short, deprecating laugh as he asked the question. Erik calculated.

"Thirty minutes, give or take." Across the line, he heard Charles exhale. It was a breathy, shaky sounding thing. When he answered, he sounded hoarse, his voice decidedly pinched.

"If it's all the same, I'll take a cab. The thought of waiting inside the airport for thirty minutes is a little more than I can bear," he said.

Erik couldn't help but laugh, delighted. "I've missed you too, Charles," he said, smug. Charles echoed his laugh, though there was something strained in it that Erik thought might be nervousness.

He wanted to tell Charles not to worry; that this was as new to him as it was to Charles, that together they would find a way to move forward, but it sounded like the sort of thing one said in person, and besides, the sooner Charles caught a cab, the sooner he would be here.

"Go fetch your cab, Charles. Have them bring you to the capitol compound; tell them you are a personal guest of Magneto's and are to be treated as such," Erik said, still smiling.

"Yes, all right. I'll see you shortly then," Charles said. Erik waited until the line filled with dial tone before he hung up the receiver. The frustration of the past few days had vanished and in its place was giddy excitement and something that Erik suspected might be nervous trepidation. In less than an hour, Charles would be here.

~*~

Charles strained forward in his chair to hang up the payphone and then turned to wheel himself back to where Hank and Ms. Carter stood surrounded by bags and boxes. They were watching the conveyer belt for stray pieces they might have missed.

Genosha's airport was a bustling place, filled with all manner of people. Charles couldn't remember the last time he had seen so many obvious mutations. The geneticist in him wanted to stare in awe--to catalogue every deviation, to pull aside each passerby and ask after their abilities. The agoraphobe in him wanted only to be free from this open, crowded place. Already he felt flushed and damp with sweat; his heart had begun to race and his breathing had gone shallow--though he was ridiculously glad Erik had misinterpreted his discomfort. Only the thought of seeing Erik kept him from dissolving into a full blown panic attack, though it was a close thing. Releasing a steady breath through his teeth, Charles forced himself to focus.

"Have we retrieved all our luggage?" he asked.

Hank had found a luggage cart earlier and now began loading their collection of belongings onto its frame. "I'm doing an inventory now."

Bringing the necessary components to build a duplicate Cerebro had proved more difficult than Charles had imagined, never mind that they would still need to construct the larger parts here in Genosha. In addition to delaying their departure for almost two days, it had also ensured they were stopped and screened at every airport security checkpoint they'd gone through. Hank, who had objected fiercely to building the Brotherhood anything even remotely approaching Cerebro, had complained loudly each time it had furthered their delay.

Though, to be fair, Charles was lucky he'd managed to convince Hank to come at all.

"I've just spoken with Erik. We're to take a taxi into the city, directly to the capitol compound," Charles said.

Hank glanced up sharply. "A taxi? He's not even going to send a car?" The way he said it, it was as though Erik had done the equivalent of killing six puppies. Charles hadn't expected Hank to warm up to Erik, but they had talked about keeping a civil tongue while they were here as Erik's guests.

"He offered, and I refused. Now, do we have everything?" Charles hated that he'd taking to snipping, but between the flight and the airport and the panic surging in his chest, he was in no frame of mind to argue with Hank.

Hank nodded, chagrined, but he didn't seem particularly happy. Charles suspected that only Ms. Carter's presence kept him from complaining more than he already had.

Outside they found a cab in relatively short order--for which Charles was tremendously glad. He clambered into the backseat immediately and began playing with the fraying edge of his coat's sleeve--absently he was aware of the change in weather, that it was too hot for a coat. It seemed to take an eternity to get their things--and his chair--stowed away, but soon enough they were leaving.

Ms. Carter had climbed into the back after Charles, and now sat primly, hands folded neatly on her lap, watching out the window. Hank had claimed the front seat, and though he was no longer the most obvious mutant in sight--that honour went, coincidentally enough, to their cab driver, who was a brilliant shade of neon green--he still kept his head ducked, an unconscious habit that Charles had hoped he might someday grow out of. Charles turned his gaze away from his companions, turning to stare out his window.

Genosha was a beautiful place; a mountainous island, ringed by steep cliffs and dune-like beaches. The airport sat on elevated lands, so Charles' first sight of Hammer Bay was from above, the city stretched out before him, a sprawling, modern metropolis that took his breath away. Erik had helped create this. It was as awe-inspiring as it was humbling. The anxiety that had manifested in the airport vanished, replaced by an overwhelming sense of admiration and a visceral surge of pride.

The capitol compound sat in the city's centre, its tower overlooking the bay, the Indian Ocean stretched out before it, as serene as it was vast. The taxi pulled to a stop at the bottom of a long line of stairs that seemed carved from one of the island's mountains. Charles grimaced, following the steps with his eyes until he reached the first platform. There stood Erik. He was smiling widely. Charles' heart stuttered painfully in his chest.

It was not often these days that he wished his legs still worked, but right now he did. He wanted so badly to exit the cab and climb the steps to Erik's side; to slide his arms around Erik's waist, press up onto his toes and kiss Erik soundly. Instead Charles waited, patiently, for someone to retrieve his chair.

That someone turned out to be Erik. He was descending the stairs now, but at his gesture the cab's trunk popped open and Charles' chair floated out. Another twist of his hand unfolded it and set the locking mechanism in place. He set it down neatly beside Charles' door.

Charles was smiling widely as he exited the cab. He transferred neatly into his chair and then wheeled himself to the edge of the steps where Erik was waiting.

"Hello," he said.

"Hello."

Erik was wearing his helmet--and, much to Charles' chagrin, his cape--so Charles could not feel the soft press of his mind. He hoped there was some innocuous explanation for the helmet, and that Erik was not wearing it for his benefit alone--he thought not, but seeing Erik had left him too out of sorts to think straight.

In one swift motion, Erik crouched, bringing them eye to eye. He opened his mouth to speak, but whatever he was about to say was lost when Hank and Ms. Carter exited the cab. A frown settled on his face, and he looked questioningly to Charles.

"We're hardly going to build me a Cerebro replica without Hank," Charles said. Surprise flickered across Erik's face, but it quickly vanished, his scowl returning as he glanced in Ms. Carter's direction.

"And the girl?" The word _girl_ was so soaked in jealousy and uncertainty that Charles couldn't help but reach out. He brought his hand to Erik's face, letting his fingers dip beneath the scroll work of his helmet to trace feather-light lines down Erik's cheek. Erik leaned into the touch, eyes stuttering briefly shut.

"My nurse," Charles said. Erik whipped his head up so fast Charles came dangerously close to getting his fingers trapped inside the helmet.

"Are you ill?" he asked, seeming honestly terrified by the prospect.

Charles sighed. He wasn't entirely sure how to go about explaining the need for a nurse--and certainly his paralysis wasn't the only reason he kept her around; that honour went to his at one time almost daily panic attacks.

"Nothing like that, I assure you. She helps me with my daily physio routine, and manages any other complications that crop up. I really only employ her so that I don't have to regularly see a doctor. I'm not particularly fond of them," Charles said. It wasn't entirely the truth, but it was close enough, and until they had a moment for _that_ conversation, Charles didn't particularly feel like sharing more.

Erik's tension eased almost immediately. He was smiling again, relaxing into the man Charles had spent two days travelling cross-state with. "I'm not particularly fond of doctors either," he said, and Charles had seen enough of his mind to understand the reasons for that.

While they had been talking a woman had appeared on the stairs behind them. She stood a few steps above them, waiting patiently for Erik to finish his conversation. Charles was momentarily struck by the two streaks of white in her hair.

"Sorry y'all," she said when it was clear everyone had noticed her.

"Ah, Rogue," Erik said, standing, his shoulders squaring even as his features shifted to neutrality. It was painfully obvious this woman belonged to Erik's Brotherhood. "This is Professor Charles Xavier and his companions, Hank McCoy and..."

"Ms. Linda Carter," Charles supplied.

"If you could arrange rooms for our guests, I would appreciate it."

"All right, if y'all will just follow me then," Rogue said. She descended the stairs to where Hank had finished unloading the cab and bent down to retrieve the towering pile of boxes.

"Oh, those are terribly heavy," Charles said, but to his surprise Rogue lifted the pile seemingly with ease. A strength mutation then, he marvelled.

Reluctantly, though with surprisingly little complaint, Hank grabbed the rest of their things and began following Rogue up the steps. Ms. Carter quickly fell into step at his side. Charles lingered behind with Erik.

"Are you tired? Or would you be willing to accompany me to my office?" Erik asked.

"By all means," Charles said, earning another of Erik's genuine smiles. Knowing what was coming Charles folded his hands neatly in his lap and let Erik levitate his chair, floating it up the steps and into the capitol compound. Inside, Erik set his chair down softly on smooth, polished marble floors.

"McCoy is obvious, but what is Ms. Carter's mutation?" Erik asked as they walked. Charles, caught up in admiring the splendor of the halls, came to stop when he finally realized what Erik was asking. Having sensed Charles was no longer at his side Erik stopped too, turned and offered a questioning glance.

"Ms. Carter's not a mutant," Charles said. Erik's eyes grew wide, his face draining of colour. He stepped forward into Charles' space, leaning down to speak directly into Charles' ear.

"She's human?" he asked, incredulous. "You brought a human to Genosha?"

Charles tilted his head. "Is that a problem?"

Erik faltered. "I... I suppose not. Unprecedented, certainly, and probably not something we want to make general knowledge, but... it's fine." It was clear from his tone that it was anything but. Charles felt his earlier good mood vanish. Logically, he knew there were differences between them--that their ideologies were so far divided that any sane person would write off any chance at friendship, let alone something more--but Charles had hoped they would find a way around that; that they would find a way to overcome all the differences between them.

"No, no, I'm sorry," Erik was saying, kneeling now on the floor between Charles' legs. His hands were wrapped around Charles' forearms and his eyes were imploring. Something in Charles broke.

"I was hoping we could have had a few days before that cropped up," Charles said, offering a weak smile.

"It's fine. It was just a surprise, but it'll be fine. I'm sure she's lovely." Charles couldn't help but laugh at that. Ms. Carter was many things--competent, helpful, resourceful--but she was never lovely. Charles said the only thing he could think to say.

"She's in love with Hank."

It was apparently the exact right thing to say, because Erik, after he recovered from his shock--and Charles would forever consider Erik's gobsmacked expression to be endearingly sweet--barked out a genuinely amused laugh.

"She'll be fine," he said, standing. He nodded down the hall, waited for Charles' nod and then set them moving again.

Magneto's office--and it was clear this was not a space Erik would have claimed as his own--was as ostentatious as it was utilitarian. In truth, the seamless merger of the two extremes rather had Charles' head spinning. The room itself was fairly plain, but the furniture was heavy oak and inlaid with elaborate metal scrollwork. Thick magenta coloured drapes hung on either side of the windows and the chair was covered in a plush material of the same colour. Numerous books, most sporting German titles, filled a bookcase that stood against the far wall. The only object on the desk was a single telephone.

Charles followed Erik into the room and parked his chair next to the desk. Erik closed the door behind him, then crossing languidly to perch on the edge of his desk, directly in front of Charles' chair. Had Charles still feeling in his legs, he likely would have felt Erik's heat bleeding into his knees.

"So what do you think of Genosha?" Erik asked even as he reached up to pull the helmet from his head. Charles closed his eyes at the sudden onslaught of Erik that filled his head. It felt like coming home.

Charles considered the question. "Certainly it's beautiful, though I'm hardly here for the sight-seeing." Erik's smile became a smug grin.

"And why exactly are you here, Charles?" he asked.

Charles let his most coy expression settle over his features. "I would think that was fairly obvious."

Erik's grin took on teeth and in one swift motion he was leaning into Charles' space, hands braced on Charles' armrests. "Good," he said before closing the distance between them.

Unlike the last time, Charles was prepared for this kiss. He surged forward to meet Erik, groaning when their lips finally met, his hands coming up to tangle in Erik's hair. Erik gave a surprised, but delighted grunt at the contact, and then opened his mouth to pull Charles' bottom lip between his teeth. He gave a light nip.

And oh, God, Charles had been thinking about this for days--ever since Erik left him in his laneway, alone and aching and wanting. The reality was far better than every fantasy he'd had since that moment, Erik warm against him, the lingering scent of clean sweat and musky spice filling Charles' nose. Charles groaned a second time and opened his mouth, brushing his tongue against Erik's upper lip until Erik released Charles' bottom lip and finally took Charles' tongue into his mouth.

There was a conversation Charles needed to have before they tore each other's clothes off like the wayward teens they weren't, but Charles couldn't seem to remember any of it. All he wanted was to get closer; wanted more until his head spun and he grew dizzy from want. He detangled one of his hands from Erik's hair and brought it to Erik's chest, toying with the clasp of Erik's cape. Erik whimpered--actually whimpered Charles thought frantically--and wrapped an arm around Charles' waist, fingers coming to rest on the boundary between where Charles could feel everything and where Charles could feel nothing.

There was a twisted, ugly scar beneath where Erik's hand rested.

It was enough to sober Charles immediately and he pushed lightly on Erik's chest, tilting his head back until their lips parted ways, a moist string of saliva catching between them. Charles breathed heavily, trying to catch his breath.

"Sorry, I..." Charles tried to say, but Erik shook his head and pressed his index finger against Charles' lips.

"I'm the one who should apologize. That was ungentlemanly of me," he said. Charles couldn't help but shiver upon hearing the shaky, gravely timbre of Erik's voice.

"Trust me, I'm not really complaining." Charles watched, as amused as he was aroused, as Erik's gaze drifted out of focus. He moaned loudly and then pressed their foreheads together.

"But you are travel-weary and likely want to freshen up, so this can wait," he said as he pulled back. "We've been hitting nothing but dead ends, so until we get your Cerebro replica built, I'm afraid we're sitting on our hands. I am going to schedule a strategy meeting for tomorrow morning, so if you're up for it, I'd like you and Hank to be there. In the meantime, I can have Rogue show you to your room."

Charles was momentarily struck by the chill in the room--ridiculous given the temperature outside--when Erik extracted himself and pulled away. He stood unsteadily--oh, God, Charles had done that--and brushed at the creases on his pants before walking towards the room's intercom. Charles tried--and failed--not to notice the outline of Erik's erection. He unconsciously wet his lips.

"There are a few things I need to take care of, but I'll come find you when I'm finished and we can have dinner; possibly squeeze in a game of chess," Erik said. Charles smiled his acceptance, but he seriously doubted they would get around to playing--not when there were far more interesting things Charles wanted to do.

And now that there was several feet of space between them, Charles wasn't sure what to do. He settled on folding his hands and placing them neatly in his lap, watching Erik as Erik watched him. The silence that grew between them was not uncomfortable, only heavy with promise and intention. The knock on Erik's door startled them both.

"Come," Erik said, reaching over his shoulder to flick the lock open. He didn't take his eyes from Charles' face.

It was the girl with the white-striped hair--Rogue Erik had called her, though a quick peak named her Anna-Marie--that entered the room. She glanced between them and then turned to face Erik.

"You rang?"

"Yes. Would you mind showing Charles to his room? And if there is anything he needs, please procure it for him."

A confused frown settled over Rogue's features. Charles was about to seek out the thought that caused it, but too quick she spoke, answering the question.

"Terribly sorry, but I just assumed he'd be staying in your room," she said. "I already had his bags sent up."

Erik's eyes widened. He glanced briefly to Charles, who was trying not to blush, then ran a shaky hand through his hair. He seemed momentarily distracted when he found he wasn't wearing his helmet.

"My apologies, Charles; Rogue here can be a little presumptuous at times," he said.

Charles cleared his throat. "To be fair, it's really not that presumptuous."

In hindsight it was probably a really stupid thing to say, because in addition to earning them a knowing, amused snort from Rogue, it also meant--if the look on Erik's face was any indication--that he was now staying in Erik's room, and while the thought of sharing Erik's bed didn't bother him in the least, it was probably something that ought to have waited until after they had had that conversation Charles had been purposely putting off.

Well, there was no getting out of it now.

The smile Erik gave him was dazzling--so much so that Charles momentarily forgot how to breathe. "Please show Charles to my room," he said, turning to Rogue.

Rogue grinned broadly, tipped her head in Erik's direction, and then gestured for Charles to follow her from the room. Charles spared Erik a single glance. Erik looked back, expression hungry and filled with such promise that Charles once again forgot about all the reasons this might be a bad idea.


	13. Chapter 13

"Why is this taking so long?" Magneto asked, letting his irritation bleed into his tone. It wasn't like him, but he'd told Charles a few hours and already it had been three. The incompetence of his followers was mind-boggling. How hard was it to follow a set of blueprints?

"To be fair," Shadowcat said, "this is pretty advanced stuff. We really ought to clear Beast to work on the project--and when they had started calling McCoy Beast, Magneto didn't know.

Magneto frowned. It had been hard enough getting the blueprints from McCoy; he was fairly certain it was going to be impossible to secure his cooperation, at least, not without getting Charles involved, and the last thing Magneto wanted to do was burden Charles with this.

"I don't care how you have to do it: I want a fully operational Cerebro up and running inside of three days."

He would have stormed out of the room at that point--wanted to storm out of the room--but being the leader of the Brotherhood meant his work was never done. As soon as Shadowcat slinked away, Jubilee was there to take her place, requisition forms in hand. One of these days he was going to appoint more signing officers, because God forbid they bring these things to Emma--she might break a nail. He scrawled his signature across three pages without reading any of them and then shooed her away.

The second she was gone Mystique was at his side, delicately maneuvering him by the elbow to a vacant corner of the room. Erik sighed.

"Not you, too," he said. A few hours to himself; was it really too much to ask?

"Don't worry; I'm actually here to relieve you. You're getting all squirrely, which is frankly frightening, because you never get squirrely. Seriously, Erik, what's gotten into you?"

It was a stupid question, mostly because Mystique already knew the answer--and she knew she knew the answer--but also because there was no way in hell Erik was going to find the words necessary to vocalize exactly why he was currently climbing out of his skin. He suspected they started and ended with Charles.

Mystique gave him a knowing look, and then proceeded to shake her head. "I've never seen you like this. It's only been three weeks. How the hell are you already so hung up on this guy?"

It was a fair question, and one Erik asked himself daily. He shrugged. "It feels like longer," was the best he could come up with.

Mystique snorted. "That's only because you've spent the better part of the last decade obsessively following this guy's work."

"You make me sound like a stalker," Erik said, affronted.

Mystique responded by shooting him a pointed look. The traitor.

"Might I remind you that the day I found you I had to rescue you from men with pitchforks?"

"And I can't thank you enough. Now go, I can cover this," she said, gesturing to the newly cleared training room, the cavernous space slowly being converted to accommodate Cerebro's design.

Erik shot her a doubtful look. He could think of at least ten other things that demanded Magneto's attention--and sadly Charles was near the bottom of that list. Unfortunately--or fortunately, depending on how Erik looked at it--Mystique would not be put off.

"Seriously, Erik, you've got a hot professor waiting in your bed. Do you really want to stick around here?"

And when she put it that way, Erik realized that she had a point. There was only one problem.

"How the hell do you know he's in my bed?" Erik asked, glaring. Mystique smirked. Erik shook his head; because of course it had been her, the sneaky, conniving devil. He really ought to have her horsewhipped. Or, you know, send her a fruit basket.

"I also took the liberty of outfitting your room," she said with a sly smile. Erik blanched. He wasn't entirely certain he wanted to know, but Mystique had never been one to guard her tongue. "Don't worry, it's pretty tame--figured you'd want to break him in a bit before you got to the hard stuff. Just some lube, a dildo or two, a couple of butt plugs, oh, and a pair of handcuffs."

She was laughing at him now, openly, and loud enough to draw the attention of the other mutants in the room. Secretly mortified, Erik mustered his best scowl and contemplated sending her to the Brotherhood's Siberian training facility--though knowing his luck she'd have a fantastic time and come home pregnant with Azazel's baby.

"Are you done?" he asked.

"For now," she said, but Erik could tell she was seconds away from dissolving into another fit of laughter. Across the room, Rogue glanced in their direction, a wide grin overtaking her face. Erik sighed.

"I have absolutely no clout left, do I?" Mystique shook her head and that was great, just great. There was really nothing left to do save leave the room, preferably while he still had some of his dignity intact.

"Don't forget your package," Mystique called after him, and so much for his dignity. Erik turned on his heel, walked back across the room, scooped up the paper-wrapped package he had sent Rogue out to pick up, tilted his chin in the air, and then walked purposely from the room.

He spent the walk back to his rooms contemplating how best to explain the items Mystique had left in his room. Certainly he didn't want Charles to think less of him--and really, he was hardly the sort to engage in those sorts of activities. Surely Charles would know that--unless Charles was the sort to engage in those sorts of activities, in which case Erik wasn't exactly sure what he'd say.

By the time he got to his room he was convinced this was all going to blow up in his face. He paused outside the door, uncertain whether to knock--he didn't want to violate Charles' privacy, but it was his room, damn it. In the end he decided on simply waving the door open, which turned out to be the exact right choice, because otherwise he might have missed the sight of Charles Xavier sleeping peacefully in the centre of his bed.

And oh, God, Charles Xavier was in his bed.

It was entirely possible Mystique had a point.

Erik swallowed heavily, stepped over the threshold, put the package he was carrying down on the bureau, and used his power to silently close and lock the door. He stared.

Charles' pale skin stood out in vivid contrast to the red of Erik's sheets. He was wearing a t-shirt--and who knew what under the covers; though oh, God, did Erik hope they were boxer shorts. His case was open on top of the dresser, several things spilling out onto its surface. There was a neat pile of discarded clothing on the floor beside the bed. His chair was parked next to the bed, though pushed aside as if to make room for someone wanting to sit on the edge of the bed. Erik took that as an invitation.

He crossed the room in three strides, removing his helmet when he reached the foot of the bed. He set it gingerly down on the floor, then stepped around it and sat on the edge of the bed, scant inches from Charles' hip. He wanted so badly to touch. Instead he took several long, lingering moments to simply look; to memorize Charles against his sheets. For the life of him he couldn't figure out how he got to this place. How did a man he'd only just met end up the single most important person in Erik's life? Love at first sight didn't happen. Soul mates didn't exist. And yet here he was. He would accuse Charles of having manipulated him, save that he had already felt this long before he first removed his helmet in Charles' presence.

It really only left one option, which meant he was completely screwed.

The urge to touch had grown so strong by this point that Erik was helpless to resist. He reached a trembling hand--and try as he might, he could not steady it--to Charles' cheek, brushing the pads of his fingertips against the delicate skin he found there. There was something entirely innocent and unassuming about Charles asleep. It was breathtaking--knowing what this man was capable of and yet seeing him so utterly vulnerable. Erik didn't want to contemplate exactly what that said about him, that he was so aroused by the sight.

A second brush of his fingertips brought a muffled moan from Charles' lips. Erik smiled, letting the day's irritations drain from his shoulders; they spilled onto the floor to pool alongside Charles' clothes.

And oh, God, Charles Xavier's clothes were on his floor.

This time a huff of laughter fell from Charles' lips. Erik froze, hand trapped where it was, pressed against Charles' cheek. His breath caught and he waited, seconds seeming to stretch into eternity before bright blue eyes slid open and regarded him with fond amusement.

"My clothes, really?" Charles said, voice thick with sleep. Erik withdrew his hand.

"That's not fair," Erik said, but he couldn't bring himself to mind. Charles Xavier was still in his bed.

Charles laughed a second time, this time bright and happy. It was possibly the best sound Erik had ever heard and he wanted to find ways to make Charles make it again and again and again.

"Good morning," he said instead. "Or rather, evening, as the case may be."

Charles pushed himself up onto his elbows. "Well, in that case, I can't see any reason to get out of bed." He offered an arched eyebrow and mischievous smirk, both of which were a clear invitation. Erik stood.

"You're sure you're not too tired?" he asked, but he was already setting aside his cape.

"I feel quite well rested, actually."

Erik discarded his jacket next and then began working on his shirt buttons. All the while Charles watched him with hooded eyes, flush spreading across his cheeks and down his neck. Erik wanted to trace its path with his tongue. Charles' arched eyebrow crept even higher.

"Reading my mind, are you?" Erik said, half reproof, half permission.

"Here? Always." There was so much honesty behind those words it was startling. It was an admission as much as it was a request, and Erik granted it with a simple nod of his head. Here, in this place, there would be nothing between them.

Charles beamed at him. Erik momentarily fumbled with the last of his shirt's buttons, fingers growing heavy and useless at the sight. He managed the last of them, but then paused with his hands on his belt's buckle. He gave Charles a pointed look. Charles swallowed heavily.

"There is a conversation we ought to have, but, yes," he said.

Erik tilted his head, but Charles merely scooted over in the bed, making room, the sight of which must have short-circuited Erik's brain, because the next thing he knew he was in the bed, facing Charles beneath the covers, and he wasn't wearing any pants.

Charles was wearing boxer shorts after all.

"So a conversation," he said, but he couldn't seem to stop staring at Charles' lips. He'd been thinking about kissing them for the better part of three hours, after all. Just to see if he could, he reached out a hand and traced his thumb across Charles' bottom lip. It was as soft as he remembered.

"About expectations," Charles said, but he sounded breathless and his eyes had fallen shut. Erik took the opportunity to close the distance between them, bringing their bodies flush until he could feel the heat of Charles' radiating against his own. Charles groaned.

Charles didn't seem to have anything further to say on the subject of expectations, so Erik pressed their lips together; and this was so much better, being in full contact with Charles, having him in Erik's arms--which he could do now, Erik realized, moving the hand that was cupping Charles' cheek down to lace his arm around Charles' waist. This time it was Erik who groaned.

Charles responded by fisting his hand on Erik's undershirt--and oh, God, why hadn't he taken it off, why hadn't he taken it off? For that matter, why hadn't he taken Charles' shirt off? Erik moved to remedy that right away, the hand around Charles' waist tugging at the back of his hem, pulling steadily up. Charles' fisted hand flattened and pushed against Erik's chest. Reluctantly--and mostly because he needed air--Erik pulled away.

"Expectations," Charles said, sounding intoxicated. He looked debauched--lips swollen red, hair a mess, skin flushed pink and pupils dilated to twice their size.

Abruptly Erik realized where this was going. He shook his head.

"Charles, you're a telepath." Charles blinked at him in confusion. "In my adult life, how many sexual partners have I had?"

Charles' eyes widened. He cleared his throat. "Two," he said after a moment, sounding both startled and a little awed.

"And when was the last one," Erik asked, because it was fairly important that Charles knew Erik wasn't the sort to fall into bed with just anyone. Erik let Charles see all of it; let him know about the girl who had first broken his heart, and then about the one night stand that had left him cold and uninterested in repeating the experiment.

"Um, almost five years ago," Charles said, and this time he sounded pleased.

"Then I think we can safely assume I don't have expectations." And he didn't. Sex had never been about bodies to him. It had always been about the meeting of minds--the one thing Schmidt had never been able to take from him, Erik's mind his own. He could think of no greater gift to give a lover.

Charles was smiling at him, clearly relieved, though Erik didn't need Charles' mutation to know he still felt the need to give his speech. Erik wondered if he had practiced on the way here. A traitorous part of his brain wondered how many others had heard the speech.

Next to him, Charles tutted. "I assure you, I've never had to give the speech. I haven't been intimate with anyone since..."

"Since you were paralysed," Erik finished, because the last thing he wanted was for Charles to feel like they had to tiptoe around the subject. He made sure Charles could hear how delightfully pleased he was to learn that he'd be the first. If the resulting blush was any indication, Charles didn't seem to mind.

Not wanting to screw this up, Erik tightened his arm around Charles' waist. He pulled Charles fully against him, nipping lightly at his lips before settling back a comfortable distance--enough so that he could breathe Charles' air but still focus on the blue of Charles' eyes. "Go on," he said.

Charles hesitated. "This is all rather mortifying, you realize," he said, but Erik shook his head and thought loudly of the conversation he'd just had with Mystique. Erik wouldn't have thought it possible, but Charles turned an even brighter shade of pink. "Okay, perhaps not that mortifying. Did she really...? I mean, are there...?" Charles shook his head. Erik laughed.

The mood between them grew serious once more.

Erik watched as Charles took a steadying breath and then slowly exhaled. When he was done, he calmly met Erik's gaze and began speaking. It sounded like he was reading from a text book.

"I have full feeling above my waistline and partial feeling in my pelvis. I have no feeling from my hip joints down. I can achieve an erection," he stumbled on the world erection, which was both distracting and endearing, "though it sometimes isn't hard enough for penetration."

Erik made sure that Charles heard the thought that met that declaration. Penetration was not something Erik enjoyed. His relief was palpable.

Charles offered a shy smile, and then took another deep breath that he slowly released. He had maintained eye contact, so Erik gave him an encouraging smile and let his fingers dip beneath the hem of Charles' shirt, shifting them up past scar tissue that Erik thought belonged to an unskilled surgeon rather than fate. He let them settle just above Charles' waistline. Charles shivered and pressed into the sensation.

"You're making it very hard to..."

"Continue," Erik said, letting Magneto creep into his tone. Charles shot him a dirty look, but he continued.

"I can ejaculate, though the sensation of orgasm is severely diminished from what it once was." Charles swallowed. "Prostate stimulation is still quite good for me, though it requires some notice," here he blushed, "and a good deal of prep work. I won't be able to feel if you tear me. Also, I will likely need to use the restroom immediately afterwards."

While Charles had been talking, Erik had been slowly walking his fingers up Charles' spine. The movement had caused Charles' shirt to ride up and it pooled now beneath his armpit. Erik was momentarily distracted by the sight of so much skin.

"And your telepathy?" Erik asked when it became clear that Charles was done talking. Charles seemed startled by the question.

"What do you mean?" he asked.

With some difficulty, Erik tore his gaze away from Charles' exposed midriff.

"How does your telepathy factor into sex? Can you piggyback on my sensations? Are there any other tricks I don't know about?" The thing about sex that had always intrigued Erik, even when he wasn't having it, was that it all boiled down to neurons firing, and that was something the brain was responsible for--why Homo sapiens still insisted on making it about genitals was beyond him.

Charles must have caught the stray thought, because his entire countenance lit up.

"I've never... I've never had anyone willing to... I mean, there were only two who knew about my telepathy, but they both found the entire thing too invasive." Charles broke out into a wide grin. "Would you be willing?" he finally asked.

It was a silly question, because of course Erik was willing--and oh how he wanted to smack Charles' previous partners--and he suspected Charles' late wife was among them--for ignoring such an integral part of him.

"Whatever you need, Charles. Whatever you want." He punctuated the statements with chaste kisses to the either side of Charles' mouth. When he pulled away, Charles' eyes were once again glazed over. His entire body had grown taut, his hands having come up to settle against Erik's chest.

"Come on, then," Erik said, staring into Charles' eyes. Charles blinked, and then shook himself. A second later, Erik felt the warm, comforting presence of Charles occupying his head.

There was a time in his life when such intimacy would have terrified him; a time when he would have run screaming from even the possibility of allowing a telepath such complete access to his head--he hadn't commissioned his helmet's construction for no reason. It still astounded him, how quickly he had come to trust Charles--how quickly he had come to want Charles nestled in every corner of his life, and that included his mind.

As an experiment, Erik trailed the hand currently resting between Charles' shoulder blades up and over his shoulder, then down his arm until he could take Charles' hand in his. He tugged lightly, Charles letting himself be manipulated, until Erik placed Charles' hand on his hip. For Erik, the point of contact seared bright and hot, the throbbing in his groin becoming a demanding, insistent thing. Charles shuddered.

"You can feel that, then?" Erik asked.

"Yes. Oh, yes. Here," he said, and suddenly Erik was aware of Charles in a way he hadn't been before--in addition to the warm weight in his mind, he was now aware of the chaotic swirl of Charles' emotions. There were no concrete thoughts, only pleasure and delight and excitement and such vibrant happiness that Erik was momentarily overwhelmed.

"Sorry," Charles said, easing back a little.

"No, don't," Erik said, wanting Charles in his entirety.

In an instant Charles flooded back into his mind, filling his senses until he could barely see straight. He could no longer differentiate his body from Charles'; the two merged so seamlessly in his mind that it was like they were one. Erik ran his hand back up Charles' arm and felt echoing fingers ghost along his own arm.

"Oh my God," he said, unable to stop the words from spilling into the tight space between them. His vision had gone crossed, but he was still acutely aware of Charles smiling.

"And this," Charles said, moving the hand on Erik's hip, sliding it down Erik's thigh until he reached the top of Erik's knee. Erik groaned. So did Charles.

And then Charles was moving back up, this time tracing the inside of Erik's thigh, hand slipping beneath the hem of Erik's boxers, Erik's hips bucking involuntarily at the sensation. Charles whimpered.

"I'd forgotten how good that felt," Charles said, moaning loud and low, curving forward to press his forehead into the space between Erik's chin and chest. Erik trailed his hand down Charles' chest to brush against a nipple. They both bucked sharply at the sensation.

In all likelihood, Erik realized, he was going to come just from this, like the teenager he was when Magda had first set her sights on him.

Beneath his chin, Charles laughed. "You know, it's considered impolite to think of ex-lovers in bed," he said.

In response, Erik brought his hand to Charles' chin and tilted his head up for a kiss.

There was something more urgent in this kiss; a growing need that Erik wasn't sure how best to address. There were so many things he wanted, and he let his mind cycle through them all, knowing he was sending Charles countless images of where he wanted them to go. From the chaos, Charles plucked out one image and reflected it back, Erik so startled he whimpered, groaning loudly when the hand inside the leg of his boxers began tugging the material down.

"Fantastic idea," he said when they pulled apart for air.

And now that he knew where this was going, it was easy to take control of it. With a soft nudge, he pushed Charles onto his back. Charles lifted himself onto his elbows to help Erik with his t-shirt. Erik tossed it onto the floor with the rest of Charles' clothes. His own undershirt landed somewhere near the dresser, and when he shucked off his boxers, they were lost to the tangle of sheets.

A niggling tendril of worry stopped his hands at the waistband of Charles' boxers, but Erik merely looked Charles in the eye and conveyed the full force of his desire. Charles relented. Erik slid them down and off, then tossed them onto the floor.

He respected Charles' request not to linger--and they would discuss that another time Erik had already decided--sliding back up to hover over Charles' naked torso. The image they had settled on came back to him them, Erik encouraging Charles' arms above his head, his hands automatically curling around the metal bars of Erik's headboard. Erik wanted desperately to feel what he was doing to Charles, without the distraction of Charles' touch, and Charles seemed inclined to grant Erik's request, so as soon as Charles gave him a firm nod, Erik dipped his head to Charles' chest and licked a stripe from sternum to navel.

"Christ," Charles cried, arching his back. Erik did it a second time, reversing the direction.

It was an amazing thing to see Charles so undone--Erik could recall with vivid detail how flustered and out of sorts Charles had left him in the early days of their acquaintance, and now here he was, flushed scarlet red, a thin sheen of sweat covering his brow, his eyes squeezed shut, head tipped back, and his entire body straining to keep from moving. This was what Erik was doing to him.

With Charles' permission, Erik used the hand not bracing himself to part Charles' thighs. He settled between them. Charles made a strangled sound that Erik felt more than heard. He was acutely aware of Charles' arousal; of his state of mind and how quickly he was losing himself to this thing between them.

Erik was desperately hard. He rocked against Charles' groin, even knowing Charles couldn't entirely feel it, unable to stop himself. Charles felt the sensation through their link and began chanting a string of nonsense words, only a handful of which Erik might mistake for his name.

He did it again, and again, letting his tongue and teeth trace a path alone Charles's chest and neck. Charles' arms were corded with muscles as he hung on, as though for dear life. A quick glance up confirmed Erik's suspicion, Charles' knuckles white from the grip he had on the headboard. Pride and lust and tenderness simultaneously surged in Erik's breast. Charles felt them all, and shuddered.

There was no feasible way Erik was going to last much longer--not this time, with Charles newly in his bed, this thing between them so overpowering. He set himself to the task of completely undoing Charles. He let his tongue taste Charles' skin; his teeth nipping at flesh, his lips pressing against the jut of Charles' collarbone. His fingers traced elaborate patterns across Charles' chest, his stomach, his arms; touching everywhere Erik could reach, everywhere Charles could feel, mapping porcelain-pale skin until he was certain he could discern Charles blindfolded. All the while Charles writhed beneath him, panting and moaning and swearing, while his thoughts cycled through a dazzling array of images; like colourful bursts of fireworks they exploded against Erik's own mind, fanning his own pleasure higher and higher until he was a shaking, breathless mess.

And then Charles' hands were on him, pulling him up to seal their lips together, Charles' tongue sliding neatly into Erik's mouth. Erik rutted against him, feeling Charles' pleasure mount even as Erik chased his own completion. It came--far, far too soon, Erik thought--just as Charles reached a hand between them, fingers sliding down Erik's sweat-slick stomach to curl around his cock. Erik let out a hoarse shout that was muffled by Charles' tongue, and then came messily between them. Even as he fell, he felt Charles shudder beneath him.

For a long moment the world ceased to exist, Erik floating in some netherspace, safely contained within Charles' head as Charles was contained within his. He was aware of steady pulse of Charles' heart--both beneath his breast and echoing in the pounding of his ears--as surely as Charles was aware of his. Emotions and thoughts flickered like ripples across a pond, none formed enough to catch, but Erik was aware of their shades, their colours. Charles was deeply content, amazed and so very, very happy. Erik let his fingertips brush against whispers of peace, which turned out to be Charles' breath, shaky and warm against his cheek.

It physically hurt to feel Charles slowly untangle their thoughts and then drift away completely. Erik mustered enough energy to push his weight up and off Charles, collapsing again on the bed by his side. He stared up at the ceiling, dazed. He couldn't seem to get his heart to stop racing.

Apparently that was sex with a telepath. Or possibly it was just sex after too long an abstinence. Or possibly he was just stupid in love and only just starting to realize it. It was rather hard to tell at the moment.

Beside him Charles groaned and then stretched, arm brushing against Erik's side in the process. Erik 's entire body shuddered with renewed want, spent cock twitching almost painfully. It was somewhat of a relief to realize he was incapable of achieving a second erection.

"God," Charles said beside him. "I had no idea. I am never having sex with anyone else ever again."

Erik sobered instantly.

"You mean before this you thought you might?" he asked. Charles chuckled, a low, lazy sound that warmed Erik even as he fought to hold on to his indignation.

"Careful, Erik, your possessiveness is showing," Charles said--which wasn't an answer at all. Erik sat, body protesting the movement, but he managed to position himself so that he was looming over Charles' prone form.

God, he looked so utterly despoiled. His entire neck and chest were covered in bright red marks the exact size and shape of Erik's mouth. His pupils were still dilated, his skin still flushed, and his hair was a mass of tangles, spread chaotically across Erik's pillow.

"I think there is something I need to clarify," Erik said. "I don't share." He left off mentioning that he would likely kill anyone who even looked at Charles sideways, let alone anyone who dared to touch.

Charles was slowly coming back to himself and he gave Erik a considering glance. Whatever he was looking for he must have found, because he smiled brightly, pushed up on his elbows and captured Erik's lips in a short but brutal kiss. When he pulled back, Erik had forgotten what they were talking about.

"I think I can do exclusive," Charles said. He glanced down at his stomach then, as if only now becoming aware of the mess Erik had made--and Erik couldn't be certain, but he suspected some of it was Charles'. Charles' lip twisted into a grimace.

"I need to clean up, and then you need to buy me dinner; or order me dinner, or make me dinner--I'm actually not sure how that works around here, but I haven't eaten since the plane and I can't say I ate much on the plane, so I am famished," Charles said, and Erik couldn't help but laugh, feeling everything settle neatly between them.


	14. Chapter 14

Dinner was a tense affair--not what Charles was hoping for after having just had the best sex of his life. At Charles' insistence they had invited Hank and Ms. Carter, but as soon as Hank had seen the marks on Charles' neck--and Charles really ought to have borrowed one of Erik's turtlenecks--he had stormed out of the restaurant, Ms. Carter in tow.

It left Charles and Erik to discuss plans for the upcoming days, which naturally led to several disagreements. Erik made it clear that the Brotherhood had hit a dead end; that their hopes lay in building a Cerebro replica and having Charles search telepathically. Charles, who had already made several attempts back in Westchester, thought the endeavour unlikely to yield new results. Erik had insisted the Brotherhood's resources could open new avenues for Charles to explore. Charles had agreed, but only because he didn't want to shattered Erik's unwavering faith. Besides, it was either that or wait for Stryker to make a mistake. The thought of what would happen if Stryker succeeded in his plan chilled Charles to the core.

"There has to be something else we can do," Erik said, pushing back his chair to stand, their meal--and it was excellent, Charles had to give Erik that--finished. The restaurant he had chosen sat adjacent the capitol compound and possessed a private dining room that seemed permanently reserved for members of the Brotherhood. When they'd arrived, the staff had scrambled to prepare it, kicking out its current occupants, who had made a fuss only until they'd realized who was replacing them.

On their way to a set of tables in the main dining room, they had nodded respectfully in Erik's direction. Charles had insisted Erik at least settle their bill.

He came around the table now--a stunning, Louis XV piece in mahogany, inlaid with gold--and curled his hand to elevate Charles' chair. The table sat on a dais, three steps bringing them down to the main floor. Erik wiped imaginary crumbs from his suit, fastened his cape and waved open the frosted French doors that separated the private room from the rest of the restaurant. Outside, a hundred voices fell silent as a room full of dining mutants turned to watch Erik and Charles leave.

"I'm telling you, Erik, we're not going to find him, not like this. We need to start compiling a list of known associates, track him that way," Charles said once they were outside, the descent of evening bringing a cooling breeze in from the bay. Charles shivered. There was a rustling sound at his side, and then Erik's cape slid over his shoulders. Charles rolled his eyes, but the garment smelled like Erik, so he wrapped it further around himself and inhaled deeply.

Erik hummed thoughtfully. "I'll have Mystique provide a list."

It marked the first time they had agreed this evening, and for that Charles was glad. Erik had been distant and closed off all night. He blamed their disharmony on the helmet, because without it he could have simply slipped inside Erik's surface thoughts--he still wouldn't go deeper, not without permission--and uncover why it was that Erik held himself so aloof. It wasn't Charles--that much Charles was certain of, Erik's every look still filled with affection--but aside from Erik's general paranoia, Charles couldn't fathom what had happened in the last few hours to have so thoroughly soured Erik's mood.

When they reached the steps into the compound--a different set this time, leading to an obscure back entrance--Erik lifted his chair and floated him up and inside. Charles had yet to go exploring, and found himself turned around until Erik led them to the same set of lifts that had originally brought them down from his rooms.

"If this place is too bureaucratic for you," Erik said as they climbed onto the lift, "I do keep a set of apartments in the city. I hardly ever use them, but they're there."

Even with the helmet, Charles knew what he wasn't saying. He spent too much time here to bother leaving--that much Charles had seen, and from the state of Erik's rooms here, Charles doubted he used them much either. Erik was not a man to whom leisure came easily. Charles rather hoped to change that. Unbidden, an image of Erik stretched out in a divan, sipping tea while reading a well-thumbed novel came to Charles' mind. He sniggered.

"Care to share?" Erik asked, stepping off the lift.

"I would, but..." Charles gestured to the helmet.

"You have no patience." Erik waited until they were secure inside his rooms to remove the helmet. As In an instant Erik's earlier mood was explained. Erik had enemies, a good number of them--even inside Genosha--and he was worried about putting Charles in harm's way. He was treated Charles like a visiting dignitary in a misguided effort to keep him safe.

"Oh, Erik," Charles said, smiling fondly. Erik's face fell, awkward embarrassment filling his mind, so Charles shared his earlier thought, watching Erik's abashed expression turn to confused amusement.

"I'm not sure what's worse; the tea or the Jane Austen. Really, Charles."

"Do not endeavour to disparage Austen in my presence, Erik," Charles said. "I happen to be a sucker for misbegotten romances."

Erik's smile widened at that, his eyes softening even as he lowered his voice. "Bodes well for me, then."

Charles' breath caught at that, dopey grin coming unbidden to his face. And here they were again; not twelve hours after Charles had gotten off a plane, and in that time they had somehow gone from bourgeoning friends to tentative lovers. It was as unexpected as it was delightful.

He watched, half mystified as Erik struggled with himself--and uncertainty was a very awkward look on him--finally seeming to make a decision as he crossed over to stand before Charles' chair. He leaned down then, filling Charles' space and offering a hesitant smile before closing the distance between them. The kiss was sweet and shy in a way Charles wasn't expecting, but he still surged into it, earning a stifled moan for his troubles. When Erik pulled back, he wore a dazed expression.

"Can I suggest we worry about Stryker tomorrow," he said, his look suggestive. Charles hated to disappoint, but he let his smile turn regretful.

"I'm afraid I haven't the stamina for what you're thinking right now, but I'm all for banishing that horrid man from our bedroom." He hadn't meant to use the possessive _our_ , but Erik seemed to delight in hearing it, so Charles didn't take it back--it certainly made up for Charles' refusal.

In fact, he didn't even seem particularly disappointed in Charles' rejection--though Charles suspected he was projecting enough of his reasoning for Erik to pick up on it. Telepathic sex--something he'd only fantasized about before tonight--had taken a lot of out him, and he honestly didn't think his mind could handle such intense intimacy again, at least not without a solid night's sleep.

Erik responded to the thought with a soft smile and a chaste kiss, his thoughts bleeding affection and contentment. He straightened quickly--as though not trusting himself to remain in Charles' space--and crossed the room to his dresser. He began working the buttons of his shirt, toeing his shoes of as he did. It occurred to Charles then that he was undressing--right there, in front of Charles, without a hint of modesty. Charles stared, watching as Erik's skin was revealed--the pale curve of his shoulder, the dusty hair at his chest, even the stark black numbers on his forearm.

That was something they hadn't talked about, though Charles had glimpsed enough of Erik's mind to know some of the story behind them. The memory of their creation was guarded by barbed-wire and shards of glass--like all the memories of Erik's youth--so Charles knew it was not a topic he could broach. Erik would have to come to him.

"I'll need a minute," Charles said when Erik turned to face him. Slipping out of his clothes was not an easy task--and then there was the issue of his bladder, likely full given the wine they'd consumed with dinner.

Erik smiled brightly and nodded Charles towards the washroom, Charles pausing only long enough to retrieve his toiletries bag and sleep attire from his case--Erik wore only a pair of boxers and Charles wondered briefly if he was expected to do the same.

He decided to wear the pajamas, because he always wore pajamas, so after Charles had cathed and brushed his teeth and changed--the process taking far longer than Charles would have liked--he exited the bathroom wearing a pair of striped cotton pajamas.

Erik arched an eyebrow.

He was sitting on the bed, still only wearing boxers, a package wrapped in brown paper sitting across his lap. In his hand he held a well-thumbed copy of Mansfield Park. Charles laughed. Erik set the book down on the nightstand, and then pulled back the covers on Charles' side of the bed--and Charles had to take several moments to process having a side of the bed before he was able to move forward. He rolled to the edge of the bed, set his wheel locks, and then swung himself onto the bed, trying and failing not to appear as nervous as he felt.

Erik watched, impassive, as Charles positioned himself against the headboard, legs tucked beneath the covers--and when Erik had arranged for someone to come in and make the bed Charles didn't know.

"You're very excited about giving me that," Charles said once he was comfortable, nodding to the package Erik was holding. It would have been exceptionally easy to peek inside Erik's mind and discover its contents, but Charles could sense Erik wanted him to be surprised.

"I think you'll like it," Erik said, handing it to Charles.

It was heavy, and very obviously a chess set now that he had it in his lap--the exact squareness of it gave it away, but Charles still took his time peeling away its wrappings, heart stuttering happily when gold and black squares presented themselves.

Despite knowing what it was, Charles' breath still caught. The set was exquisite, a raised board with drawers beneath it to hold the pieces. Inside one he found a set in brushed nickel, masterly crafted. The set had undoubtedly cost a minor fortune. Charles rolled a rook between his fingers and turned to make eye contact with Erik.

"Thank you," he said, overcome with emotion. The set he'd brought was the same one they'd used on their road trip; serviceable, but far too compact for any extended play. Charles placed the set between them and immediately began setting the pieces. Erik shifted down in the bed, turned on his side, and propped himself on his elbow.

"I rather feel like we've done today backwards," he said, but he was smiling, and Charles could feel his pleasure--it came off of him in waves.

This, Charles thought, opening the game, more than made up for the disquiet of their dinner and the limitations of his libido.

~*~

Long after Charles had fallen asleep, Erik had watched him, unable to take his eyes away from the man occupying the right half of his bed. Charles slept like the dead--perfectly still, body a pin-straight line. His eyes fluttered with REM sleep--his dreams pleasant, Erik thought, the soft quirk of his lips betraying his happiness. It occurred to him several hours later that watching Charles sleep was probably a vaguely creepy thing to do.

It didn't stop him.

He was watching him now, the soft light of dawn illuminating his skin. Charles seemed to glow like some ethereal angel; as otherworldly as Erik suspected he might be--how else had he managed to do what no one else had, to so fully capture Erik's heart.

He had slept some; in fitful starts that left him more exhausted than he might have been had he simply remained awake. His dreams were filled with the usual darkness; Schmidt and his mother's pleading eyes, only now they were overlaid by metallic collars that his powers couldn't touch. Each time he woke, Charles had changed positions, though no matter how long Erik sat, propped on an elbow, Charles remained motionless.

He left his bed-- _their bed_ , he thought furiously--somewhat reluctantly, but even through his showering and dressing, Charles did not move. For a long while, Erik stood at the foot of the bed, again staring at Charles' sleeping form. It was only the growing lateness of the hour that set him moving, Magneto expected.

He retrieved his cape from where Charles had folded it neatly and set it atop the bureau. It held Charles' scent, though it was faint and Erik knew it would vanish before midday. The thought was heartbreaking. Still, he swung it over his shoulders and fastened it in place. On the bed, Charles twitched and then reached absently down in his sleep, grasping his legs and pulling them straight--they'd been curled to side before--his torso following a moment behind, resettling on his back in the middle of the bed.

 _Huh_ , Erik thought, retrieving his helmet and tucking it under his arm. He crossed the room to the side of the bed and sat gingerly on it, then brought a hand to Charles' face, thumb stroking across Charles' bottom lip. Unconsciously, Charles' lips parted. Erik swallowed against a sudden surge of lust.

"You do have to wake up at some point today," he said, though it was only just morning--still he was loath to leave without saying goodbye.

Charles came awake instantly, and Erik realized it was likely because he'd been reaching out with his mind as well as his words. Charles blinked, several times before he seemed to process that Erik was no longer lying at his side--that Erik was dressed and ready to leave.

"You're leaving," he said.

"I have to; important Brotherhood type stuff. And you need to get up, because I'm fairly certain Ms. Carter said she'd be by this morning to do your physio, and there's a meeting you need to attend at eleven."

Charles groaned at that, though whether it was the meeting or the physio he wasn't looking forward to, Erik didn't know.

"The physio, trust me, that woman is a sadist."

"So long as you're not a masochist, we won't have a problem," Erik returned, earning one of Charles' eye rolls along with an exasperated shake of his head.

"I assure you, you have nothing to worry about."

Erik wasn't so sure about that--and he had known this would be a problem, because he wasn't used to having things that were _his_ , and while he knew Charles wasn't a possession, it didn't stop him from wanting to possess Charles.

Since there wasn't anything Erik could say in return--at least, not without coming across as a paranoid lunatic--he offered a warm smile, leaned forward to press a quick kiss to the side of Charles' mouth, and then stood and moved to the door.

"Eleven, Charles. I'll send Rogue to fetch you," he said in parting.

The morning dragged on endlessly. Erik was starting to regret having put every project save Operation Destroy Stryker on hold. The endless waiting was starting to get to him; he would have welcomed a distraction. Twice he thought about returning to his rooms to see Charles, but he doubted Charles would want him sitting in during physio--and Charles had told him enough of the process to know that it was unpleasant and left Charles hurting, something Erik wasn't sure he could bear to witness.

Instead he skulked around the Cerebro install, glaring at anyone who didn't appear to be working hard enough--fast enough. Hank was nowhere to be seen, despite Charles' request the night before. He had agreed to attend today's meeting, though, so Erik might forgive him his absence.

He was eventually joined by Mystique, who looked like she was on a war path. As soon as she saw him, she made a beeline for his side. She thrust a fistful of schematics into his chest.

"Do you know what he's done?" she asked. Erik drew himself up and let Magneto harden his features.

"Who, exactly, is he?" Magneto asked.

"Cut the bullshit, Erik. Do you know what Beast has done?" Erik narrowed his eyes. It seemed enough of an answer for Mystique, because she deflated someone and pointed to the schematics.

"The telepathic enhancement field--it's tied directly to Xavier's brainwaves."

"And?"

"And, that means once this thing is built, the only person who will ever be able to use it is Xavier."

Erik was having a hard time seeing how this was a problem. He said as much.

"Are you kidding? We're spending millions on this thing so that one-- _one_ \--telepath can use it. I know he's your boyfriend," and Erik couldn't help but flush up with pride upon hearing her say so--"but that doesn't mean he's always going to be around."

 _And why the hell not?_ Erik wanted to ask, because if the choice were his, Charles would never leave. But they hadn't talked about that--hadn't worked out what was going to happen when all of this was over, when Stryker was brought to heel--crushed under Erik's boot--his collars no longer a threat. But surely now, after everything that had happened between them, Charles would stay. Wouldn't he?

"Charles has agreed to help us. It's on his terms. End of discussion," Magneto said. Mystique scowled, but she knew him well enough to know that arguing was pointless, so she kept her mouth shut. Still angry, she forcefully took back her schematics, and then stormed from the room. Erik watched her go, his annoyance at her anger displaced by his excitement at the hour--ten to eleven.

He ended up waiting for Charles outside the briefing room, wanting to make his introduction personally. It was a formality to be sure--there wasn't a single mutant within the Brotherhood who didn't know he was here, and many had already had informal introductions. Still, ceremony was important in these situations--this Erik had learned early on in his leadership. Charles Xavier was the world's most powerful telepath, not to mention the man many credited for starting the mutant revolution. To a good many people inside the briefing room, Charles was a god. Erik wanted to be the one to introduce the legend; and if he was honest, he wanted them to know that Charles was his to introduce.

As though taking his cue, the lift at the end of the hall dinged open. Rogue stepped out, followed by Charles. As soon as Charles saw him, his features lit up, wide smile stretching across his face. Despite his intentions to remain professional, Erik couldn't help but grin. He stepped forward to meet them, letting Rogue circle around and enter the room before them.

"How was your morning?" Erik asked, noticing then the pinched corners of Charles' eyes. He crouched before Charles' chair.

"Horrific, but necessary," Charles said. He reached a hand up to touch the side of Erik's helmet. Erik knew he would never like its presence, but he hoped Charles at least understood it--hoped Charles knew it was no longer meant for him.

"You have my condolences," Erik said, but he was smiling brightly, pity the last thing on his mind. That didn't mean he didn't want to bundle Charles off to bed; to spend the afternoon there.

Charles offered a mock nod in response, and then gestured to the door. Erik stood swiftly, squared his shoulders, and let Magneto settled over him. He stepped inside the room, holding the door with his power for Charles to follow behind. The room fell into silence, clusters of mutants, once deep in conversation, all simultaneously turning to watch Magneto and Charles enter the room.

Mystique and Emma had been standing near the door and they stepped forward now, Mystique bristling with indignation.

"You're late," she said. Magneto glanced at the clock on the wall and then frowned.

"Ten minutes, Mystique, hardly a cause for alarm. You remember Professor Charles Xavier." Magneto inclined his head.

"It's good to see you again, Ms. Mystique," Charles said, smile genuine. Mystique had drawn herself to her full height, her eyes flashing fire, but Charles stared at her with nothing but fascination, not in the least intimidated by her display. Magneto recalled how easily Charles had manipulated her, and knew without a doubt there was nothing she could do to cause him harm.

"Professor Xavier. Welcome to Genosha. Also, I should probably mention that Erik is a close friend of mine, so if you hurt him, I will hunt you down and kill you." Mystique smiled, teeth unnaturally sharp. Magneto sighed and stepped between them.

"Thank you, Mystique," he said, but a glance at Charles told him that Charles was neither offended nor particularly concerned. He was smiling, seeming quite pleased by Mystique's threat. Magneto still shooed her away.

It left him face to face with Emma, who was staring at Charles with a considering expression on her fact. Charles was staring back, and it took Magneto a moment to realize they were communicating telepathically. He snarled.

Which caused Emma to laugh, her entire countenance relaxing, and then, in a move that startled Magneto so badly he almost forgot his earlier annoyance, she bent down to offer Charles a hand.

"Charles Xavier, it is a distinct pleasure," she said, smiling what Magneto suspected was the first genuine smile to ever cross her face.

Charles' smile was just as genuine. "It is indeed, Emma Frost."

"I think it's time we start the meeting," Magneto interjected, scowling in Emma's direction. In response, she merely smiled. She winked at Charles before taking her seat. Much to Magneto's chagrin, Charles laughed at the gesture, bright and genuinely amused.

Magneto took his place at the head of the briefing room table signalled the start of the meeting, everyone scrambling to take their places. Charles parked his chair directly on Magneto's right-- _where he belonged_ , Magneto couldn't help but think. He was about to open his mouth to speak, to call the meeting to order, when the door slid open and Hank McCoy slipped into the room.

"Sorry," he said, shuffling awkwardly across to the first empty seat he found available. He avoided looking in Magneto's direction, but made brief eye contact with Charles.

"Are we all here then?" Magneto asked, casting Hank a pointed look. He felt more than saw Charles glance in his direction. Magneto ignored him--this wasn't the time for pleasantries.

"We'll start with a quick introduction. As most of you already know, we have the distinct honour to have Professor Charles Xavier as our guest." Magneto gestured to Charles, who smiled serenely and tipped his head. They had discussed this earlier, and if Charles was following Erik's advice, then Magneto knew he was giving a small thank-you-for-the-warm-welcome speech telepathically. Certainly the mutants around the table seemed enraptured by whatever it was they were hearing. For the first time in perhaps his existence, Magneto cursed his helmet--Erik had been cursing it for weeks now.

When Charles was finished, he glanced over to make eye contact, leaving Magneto to clear his throat and start the meeting in earnest.

"Shadowcat, can you give us a status update on Cerebro?" he said, turning his gaze on their resident genius.

Shadowcat stood, shuffled some papers in her hand, and gave her update. The gist, much to Magneto's annoyance, was another two days at best.

"McCoy," Magneto said, once again glancing at Hank. "I'm sure you understand how important this is. Is there a chance we can convince you to help speed up the process?"

Hank looked to Charles before answering, the defiance he'd worn when Magneto first addressed him vanishing. "I'll do what I can."

That ought to speed up the process considerable, Magneto thought with a smile. He turned his attention to Mystique.

"Have you compiled that list?" he asked. Mystique nodded.

"I'll get it to Professor Xavier right after the meeting."

Magneto smiled. Things were progressing nicely. He then turned the meeting over to the table, letting each member highlight their current efforts at finding Stryker. Cyclops was the only one with something even remotely resembling a lead, so Magneto gave him the go ahead to run with the idea--a government contract out of Peru for some questionable circuit boards, their construction similar enough in design to one of Cerebro's components that Cyclops was convinced they were designed for use either for or against mutants.

"I think we're as far as we can get for the time being," Magneto said when the meeting came to a conclusion. "As soon as we find this guy, we'll reconvene. For now we concentrate on finding this guy, because this time he's not going to walk; I want his head."

He expected the room to clear silently, without any unnecessary drama. Sadly, he hadn't factored on Hank McCoy. Beast--and Magneto could see why his Brotherhood had chosen to give the man the name--stood, so abruptly his chair tipped back. His growl was loud enough to draw every gaze.

"So that's your solution? You're just going to kill the guy?" he asked, hackles raised, lips curled back to expose the whites of his pointed teeth.

Magneto opened his mouth to reply, but before he could, Charles was leaning across the table.

"Hank..." he said, warning in his tone. Beast turned to face Charles, incredulous.

"No. Not this time, Charles. You might be able to overlook this, but I can't. It goes against everything I stand for. I won't be party to murder." He didn't say anything else, or wait for a rebuke; instead storming from the room, the door slamming shut behind him.

Magneto glanced down at Charles, who was staring at the door, distressed expression marring his features.

"My apologies," Charles said. "He can be a little rash sometimes." Magneto nodded his understanding. He did not expect what Charles said next. "But I do agree with him."

Magneto was dumbstruck; of all the things he had expected, it was not for Charles to undermine him, here, in front of his followers. Magneto stepped towards Charles' chair, well aware that he was looming, his expression hardening. If Charles thought he could use their relationship to dictate Magneto's actions, he was wrong.

"I know this isn't an easy concept for you, Charles," Magneto said, under his breath, though given the silence of the room, there was no one who didn't hear it. "But believe me when I say we have tried showing this man mercy. We have shut down more of his projects than I can count, and every time we do he starts something new. He is determined to see our destruction. We no longer have the luxury of allowing him his life. William Stryker must die."

Charles met his eye, unflinching, but his expression showed his horror. He was looking at Magneto like he had never seen him before--and somewhere deep inside, Erik wept to see such a look on Charles' face.

"How can you say that? What gives you the right to choose who lives and who dies? Do you know anything about this man? Do you know about his son? Do you know what his son did to his mother--to his brother? William Stryker is scared to death of us, because he is intimately acquainted with us, and we have done nothing but tear his universe apart.

"It's not an excuse, but it is an explanation. He is scared and making stupid decisions that he thinks are right. We are all by-products of life's circumstances. William Stryker is no different from me or you, but if you kill him, you will be no better than him, and more importantly, you will prove to the world that Stryker was right; that you are to be feared."

Magneto fumed. The urge to reach out with his power and hurt something was overwhelming. It was only because this was Charles that Magneto kept himself in check. He would never hurt Charles.

"Then tell me, Charles, what do you suggest we do? Let him walk? Give him a firm scolding? How long before he has us in chains? The man is determined to see us slaves. Will you hand that to him?"

Charles' expression softened then, his earlier sadness returning. Something in Magneto's chest lurched painfully.

"I'm asking you to show the world that we are better than Stryker would have them believe. I'm asking you to take a path that won't end with a thousand Strykers stepping up to take his place."

Charles paused, and Magneto knew, were it not for the helmet, he would have sunk into Erik's head. Magneto wasn't sure if he was glad or disappointed for the helmet's protection.

"Bring him to trial. Here, in Genosha. He has broken your laws, and you are a member of the UN. This concerns you, most of all. Petition to have him arrested and hold the trial here. Make it impartial--invite elected representatives from the UN to sit as jury. Then show the world his crimes. Show the world just punishment. Set a precedent, so that anyone who tries to do what he has done will know they face the same consequences."

For the longest moment Magneto could only stare at Charles. He couldn't tell if Charles' optimism was brilliant or ludicrous. Whatever it was, it was enticing. Hushed conversations sprang up around the table, words like _validation_ and _recognition_ floating around the room. It was a tremendous undertaking--convincing the UN to allow such a thing, but he did have two telepaths at his disposal, Magneto reminded himself.

Charles was looking at him hopefully now, and how he had managed to do the impossible--yet again--Magneto would never know. Perhaps the others were right. Perhaps Charles was a god. Magneto turned his attention back to the table.

"Riptide, Emma, find out if Charles' plan is a viable option," he said.

There was no sense dismissing the room after that; the table had exploded in sound. Magneto glanced just once at Charles--and found him smiling brilliantly. He nodded to door, trusting Charles to follow.


	15. Chapter 15

Charles waited until they were out in the hall, away from prying eyes, to sink down into his chair. The effort it had taken not to dissolve into a panic attack in the middle of Erik's--no, Magneto's--meeting had left him exhausted. For a while there he'd honestly thought there would be no reasoning with Magneto--and where would that have left him, because certainly Charles couldn't have found an excuse to stay had Magneto insisted on planning a willful murder.

A small voice in the back of his head told Charles that Magneto had done it before and would most certainly do it again.

 _Stop it_ , Charles told himself firmly. Erik had changed his mind; had taken Charles' advice under advisement. They could find a way to meet in the middle; to compromise and make this work.

"Are you all right?" It wasn't Magneto who asked the question, but Erik, expression shadowed by guilt. He swallowed heavily.

"Tired," Charles confessed. In an instant Erik was at his side, hand coming to Charles' shoulder. "I'm fine, really, just in need of a nap."

Erik nodded, hesitating briefly before removing his hand, bringing it awkwardly to his side.

"I think we can manage a nap," he said, smiling.

Charles chuckled. "As nice as that would be, first I need to see Hank." There was always the chance nothing he could say could keep Hank from leaving--and while the Brotherhood wanted Hank's help in building Cerebro, that was not the reason Charles wanted him to stay. Having sat through that meeting--having nearly come to blows with Magneto--Charles was starting to realize he had few friends here, and for as much as he trusted Erik--as much as he was starting to suspect he loved Erik--Charles liked the idea of having someone else he could turn to.

It was not a thought he felt comfortable sharing with Erik, who was still radiating uncertainty--even with the helmet--obviously as thrown as Charles after what had just happened.

Erik agreed to take him to see Hank--albeit reluctantly--leading them to the suite of guest rooms set aside for visiting diplomats. Hank and Ms. Carter had been placed in separate rooms, side-by-side, but when Hank opened the door Ms. Carter was sitting on the bed and her suitcase was set on the low desk beneath the window.

No one appeared to be packing, which Charles took as a good sign.

"Not him," Hank said, gesturing to Erik. Charles immediately reached out to sway Hank's thoughts, but then thought better of it. He had just convinced Erik to do the right thing; the least he could do was the same.

"Please let us in, Hank. I'm only asking five minutes, and if, after that, you want us to leave, we will leave."

Charles could hear Hank wavering; for as much as he disliked Erik, Charles was his oldest friend--not to mention mentor and the first person who had accepted his mutation. Charles waited patiently, keeping his telepathy firmly reigned in. Eventually Hank sighed and stepped aside. Charles rolled into the room.

The room was nowhere near as extravagant as Erik's; more like a business grade hotel room than a diplomatic suite, but Charles suspected Hank found it comfortable. He wheeled across lushly carpeted floors and parked his chair next to the desk. Erik came to stand at his side. He still wore the helmet--which frustrated Charles to no end--but he was doing his best to blend into the shadows, trusting Charles to deal with the situation.

"We're going to arrest Stryker and bring him to trial, with UN backing," Charles said. Hank looked up sharply.

"He's agreed to that?" he asked, nodding to where Erik stood. Charles nodded. "And you trust him?"

 _Of course I trust him_ , Charles wanted to say, but before he got the chance, Erik stepped forward.

"I'm a man of my word," he said, body taut with anger.

Ignoring Charles completely, Hank stepped forward to meet Erik, and for a moment Charles thought they might come to blows. Ms. Carter had slid off the bed and was inching towards the bathroom. She looked terrified. Charles sent a calming thought in her direction and then pushed her to complete her journey, the bathroom door closing firmly behind her.

"I'm supposed to take the word of mass murder?" Hank said; all teeth and raised fur. His hands were clenched into fists and his body was leaned forward as though preparing to charge. Truly, when Hank wanted to, he could appear quite fearsome. Erik seemed unfazed.

Charles brought his hand up to pinch the bridge of his nose. This was the last thing he needed right now, when his nerves were still so shot. Why couldn't they sit down and discuss this like civilized adults? Preferably over scotch.

"And how exactly am I a mass murderer?" Erik asked, the metal in the room beginning to quiver. Charles wasn't sure if he was doing it intentionally; if not it marked the first time Charles had seen Erik lose control of his power. It was a frightening thing--he felt as though he was seeing a younger version of Erik, someone too rash to be trusted. Then again, knowing Erik, it was entirely possible he was simply posturing.

"Are you denying Los Angeles," Hank replied. Charles glanced up sharply. One point six million people had died in Los Angeles, but to Charles' knowledge, Erik had had nothing to do with the event.

"That wasn't me," Erik said, confirming Charles' assumption. Still, Charles felt himself relax, tension he hadn't been aware of draining from between his shoulder blades.

"But it was your Brotherhood."

"No, it was a single member of the Brotherhood, acting alone, and as soon as I learned of it, Apocalypse was stripped of membership and banished from Genosha."

Hank didn't appear to have anything to say to that. He didn't back down, but he did appear uncertain--though his anger was still resting on the surface of his thoughts. Charles thought perhaps now would be a good time to distribute those drinks, so he wheeled himself to the wet bar that occupied the corner opposite the desk. Erik's room didn't have one of these.

"I don't need you to like me, McCoy, but for Charles' sake, it would be nice if we could be civil," Erik was saying. He heard Hank snort just as he found what he was looking for: a 38 year old Glendronach--and obviously the Brotherhood knew how to treat their visiting dignitaries.

"For Charles' sake? Please explain to me how you have Charles' best interests at heart, because he doesn't even know you, and you don't know him. You've only just met," Hank replied. Charles retrieved three glasses from the cabinet and opened the bottle. At the sound, Hank turned to stare in his direction, Erik and their argument seemingly forgotten.

"What are you doing?" he asked. Charles glanced over and arched an eyebrow.

"I thought we could all do with a drink." Charles held up the bottle. Hank's eyes grew wide and he glanced from Charles to Erik, and then out the window.

"It's only just noon," he said. Charles hesitated. It felt later--like the entire day had gotten away from him. He'd been anticipating heading back to Erik's room--their room--crawling into bed, and falling asleep.

"I thought it might soothe ruffled tempers," Charles explained. Hank's anger returned, tenfold, only this time it was directed at Charles. Charles found himself flinching.

"You would think that," Hank said, all strained bitterness that cut Charles to the core. He had no idea where it had come from--and a brief glimpse of Hank's mind showed only exasperation, annoyance and extreme hostility; the latter still mostly directed at Erik.

A second later the sensation was gone, Hank's mind stuttering shut--and Hank had never once closed his mind to Charles. Charles swallowed. He still held the open bottle of whiskey, glasses forgotten.

"I'm sorry, Charles. I didn't mean to say that." Hank hesitated. "I think you should go. I think you both should go." He deflated somewhat.

Charles hesitated. He glanced to Erik to find Erik doing the same, obviously waiting for Charles' lead. There was something in Erik's expression that caused Charles' already wounded heart to constrict painfully. Charles capped the bottle, tucked it into the side of his chair--there was no sense wasting a freshly cracked bottle--and headed towards the door.

"Are you leaving?" Charles asked when he got there, turning back to look at Hank.

Hank's mind surged with indecision, but he shook his head. "I'll stay." Charles felt like he could breathe again, though only barely. He nodded his thanks, and an apology, and wheeled through the open--Erik's doing--door. Erik followed on his heel.

Out in the hall, Charles released a shuddering breath. Erik came to stand at his side.

"Still feel like a nap?" he asked. Charles chuckled, but it was a sad, exhausted sound.

"Yes, I think I do," he said, genuinely meaning it.

By the time they made it back to Erik's rooms, exhaustion had crept into every inch of his body. He was stiff and sore--though most of that he could blame on this morning's physio--not to mention emotionally wrung out. Even his telepathy seemed out of reach, the edge of a headache made worse whenever he reached for it. Charles closed his eyes, tipped his head back, and willed the day to come to an end.

"I never said, but thank you," Charles said when he opened his eyes again. Erik was sitting on the edge of the bed, still wearing his helmet--and Charles frowned at that--so lost in thought that he didn't appear to have heard anything Charles had said.

"Did we do this too fast?" he asked suddenly. Charles narrowed his eyes, not quite certain what Erik was talking about.

"Did we do what too fast?"

"This," Erik said, gesturing first between them, then to the room, and finally to the bed. Charles' brain caught up with the conversation.

He stared at Erik, wishing Erik would remove the helmet. Erik sat, perfectly still, but when Charles looked close enough, he could see that Erik's hands were trembling. A closer look at the lines of his face told Charles that Erik was terrified. Hank's earlier accusation came back to him.

 _He doesn't even know you, and you don't know him_.

"Because this has been... Good," Erik said abruptly, obviously misreading Charles' silence. "And I don't want to screw it up, so if we did this too fast, if we need to slow this down, then we can do that. I can arrange for you to have your own room, and we can..."

"Stop," Charles said, holding up his hand. Erik stopped. The terror in his eyes was still apparent, but now there was worry and such heart-wrenching dejection that Charles wanted to rise from his chair, walk across the room to Erik's side, and wrap the man in a hug.

"I'll leave if you want me to, but I would rather stay. Hank may be right; we don't know each other particularly well, not yet, but that doesn't mean we won't, or that we haven't made a decent start."

Erik's features relaxed at that--and until that moment, Charles hadn't realized just how tense Erik had been. He smiled, standing then to cross to Charles' side. He leaned into Charles' space, but instead of the kiss Charles was expecting, Erik merely retrieved the bottle of scotch from Charles' side. He turned the bottle to read the label, an eyebrow disappearing beneath the brim of his helmet.

"I need to talk to Rogue about what she's stocking in the diplomatic suites," he said. Charles chuckled.

He left Erik to find them glasses--though Charles wouldn't have been surprised if the only thing Erik came up with were the little paper cups stacked in the bathroom next to the toothpaste--and wheeled over to the bed. Locking his wheels, Charles quickly transferred himself onto the mattress. He was sitting up, propped against the headboard when Erik returned, two glasses--real ones--in hand. He handed one to Charles.

"You know it is only noon," he said, sipping from his glass, and then setting it on the nightstand. He reached up to remove his helmet.

The feel of Erik's mind--still overwhelmingly uncertain--was like a balm for Charles' shattered nerves.

"I'm still on New York time," Charles said. He sipped his whiskey, settled further back into the bed, and offered Erik a suggestive smile. Erik laughed and then perched on the edge of the bed.

"I thought you wanted to nap," he said, but he reached out a hand and slowly danced his fingertips up the inside of Charles' arm. Charles let his expression grow coy.

"I think I'm getting a second wind," he said. Erik beamed at him, all of his earlier uncertainty vanishing.

Erik stood then, taking Charles' drink to set it down next to his. He began methodically stripping off his clothes--and this, Charles realized, was the third time he'd been treated to a strip show. As soon as Erik was down to his boxers, he climbed into the bed, settling over Charles--who was still braced against the headboard--knees braced on either side of Charles' hips so that they were face to face. Charles would have given anything to feel the points of contact between them.

"Far too many clothes," Erik muttered, and Charles could feel his need--a heavy, unwieldy thing that surged in Erik's bloodstream. It wasn't just the sex, Charles realized, unable to stop himself from seeking out Erik's thoughts; Erik had gone years without the simple pleasure of human touch, and now that he had permission, he craved the contact--and that was something Charles understood all too well. Charles brought his hands to Erik's hips, holding him in place. The smile Erik gave him took Charles' breath away.

It was a strange thing to be undressed with such care, Erik taking his time with Charles' buttons--first his cardigan, which he pushed off Charles' shoulders, temporarily trapping his arms before the sweater came away. Erik tossed it onto the floor. His shirt came next, Erik's fingers trembling as he moved along each button, his gaze becoming unfocused the closer he got to the bottom. He paused at the second last button to pull Charles' shirt out of his pants, becoming impatient then and pulling it over Charles' head rather than bothering with the final buttons. He left Charles his undershirt.

Charles swallowed nervously when Erik reached for his belt.

"Don't, please. I want..." Erik said, making eye contact then, his eyes reflecting nothing but naked need. Charles nodded once, slow and deliberate. Erik threaded the belt through its buckle and then reached for Charles' fly.

Charles was blushing furiously by the time Erik had pulled off his pants; limp legs useless between Erik's thighs. Erik didn't seem to care--and in all the time Charles had known him, Erik had never once shown any concern over Charles' paralysis. He looked at Charles' chair the same way other people looked at ties--an accessory, hardly an integral part of the whole. It was one of the things Charles suspected he loved about Erik. That list seemed to be growing daily.

"Wait," Charles said when Erik bent down towards him. Erik paused, his hand braced against the headboard, his bare chest brushing against Charles' clothed one. "There's something I'd like to try."

Erik cocked his head, seeming intrigued. His smile was tinged with amusement.

"Come lie beside me," Charles instructed, nodding to Erik's side of the bed. Erik hesitate briefly, and Charles sensed he was reluctant to move--his thoughts told Charles just how much he liked having Charles trapped beneath him. "Trust me," Charles said, and Erik instantly shifted, moving into the vacant space at Charles' side.

Charles shifted down so that he was lying next to Erik, and turned so that they were facing each other. He reached down briefly to position his legs. The second he was settled Erik shifted into his space, arm wrapping around Charles' waist. Before Charles could issue his next instruction, Erik was in his face, pressing their lips together, kissing Charles soundly. Had they been able, Charles suspected his toes might have curled. Instead he pressed into the kiss, letting his hands come up to trace the lines of Erik's pectorals.

"Close your eyes," Charles said when they parted. Erik smirked at that, but he closed his eyes, mind radiating trust.

It took less than a minute to slide into Erik's head, to pull his subconscious onto the astral plane. "You can open your eyes now," Charles said, staring at Erik's back, several feet of space separating them.

He watched as Erik jerked in surprise, glancing around wildly before he finally turned, frantic in his search for Charles. He relaxed instantly upon spotting him. Charles offered a quirky smile. Erik huffed a laugh and then glanced around, leisurely this time, taking in the sight of Charles' study--the same one that had hosted their very first chess game.

"This isn't real," he said. "You've created this."

"I've projected it; but the space is real--the astral plane, I mean," Charles replied. Erik turned back to face him, obviously impressed. He faltered, only then noticing that Charles stood.

In three steps he was standing before Charles, gaze searching. Charles waited, head tipped back, reveling in being able to almost look Erik in the eye.

"Huh," Erik said. Charles cocked his head, confused. "I really thought you'd be taller," Erik explained, and Charles found himself shaking with laughter, their very first meeting surfacing in his mind.

"I'm plenty tall," Charles said, stepping into Erik's space and pressing up onto his toes--and it was incredible to be able to do so, even if Charles couldn't actually feel the sensation in his legs. He sealed their mouths together.

Erik surged forward into the kiss, arms wrapping around Charles' waist. The force of it caused Charles to stagger back. A single thought--not an easy thing to do in this moment--shifted a wall, and suddenly Charles was pressed against it, Erik rolling their hips together.

The sensation was a fraction of what it might have been, because try as Charles might, he could not recreate the feeling of having full mobility--only the functionality. Still, it was a heady experience, standing on two feet while Erik pinned him to a wall and ravished him.

This took more concentration than simply piggybacking on Erik's sensations, so Charles had to fight to keep from letting their stage dissolve into mist. Erik seemed to sense Charles' distraction, because he pulled back--eyes deep dark pools, lips kiss-swollen and damp from where he'd been sucking on Charles' neck.

"Are you not fully here?" he asked. His hands, where they rested on Charles' waist, were shaking again, though Charles suspected for an entirely different reason.

"I'm just tired, and it takes a good deal of concentration to maintain this location."

"Then get rid of it. As nice a touch as the roaring fire is, I don't think we need it," Erik said, and Charles instantly let the study dissolve, the astral plane taking its natural form--a nullspace of infinite light and darkness, stretching out in every conceivable direction, until one became dizzy trying to make sense of it. Hastily, Charles added a floor--a hazy, fuzzy thing that held no particular pattern, only solidness--and then, as an afterthought, a wall--because he had been thoroughly enjoying being pressed against one.

And this was far more manageable, Charles free to let his mind drift, to fall into the moment, his only preoccupation becoming the press of Erik against him.

"Better," Erik said, nipping at Charles' lips before dipping his head to finish marking Charles' throat--and Charles suspected Erik would be disappointed to wake and find Charles' actual body unmarred.

This wasn't like the last time--new and uncertain and desperate; their bodies starting to become familiar with one another--but it held a new kind of desperation, one born of their argument and their need for reassurance. Charles did everything in his power to write his intentions on Erik's skin--with hands and tongue and teeth--and Erik did the same, until their bodies were raw and red to match their battered psyches.

"Can I?" Erik asked, sliding hands down Charles' back to grasp his ass, pulling up until Charles took the hint and wrapped his legs around Erik's waist--mostly because, in this place, he could.

"Yes, yes," Charles said, and in the span of a thought the rest of their clothes fell away.

There was no need for ugly necessities like stretching and lubrication here. When Erik slid two fingers deep inside, they went effortlessly and sparked nothing but pleasure in Charles' groin. He was fully erect here, and could ejaculate if he desired it, but back in their bed, it would most likely be Erik who made the mess. The thought dissipated with the first brush of Erik's breath against his ear. When Erik spoke, his voice was low and husky.

"I believe you said prostate stimulation was still good for you," Erik said, finding the gland and crooking his fingers against it.

Charles spasmed around him, legs tightening even as he dug his nails into Erik's shoulders. Erik hissed at the sensation, momentarily losing his rhythm. He retaliated by leaning forward and sinking his teeth into the juncture between Charles' neck and shoulder. Charles ' vision dimmed even as bright spots of light flashed against the underside of his eyelids.

"If you don't stop teasing..." Charles managed when he could talk again. Erik chuckled, but he immediately withdrew his fingers, the blunt head of his cock coming to rest against Charles' hole.

Charles exhaled, expecting pain--because experience had taught him it was expected. None came--in part because of where they were, but mostly because he was still without feeling in those first few inches. The last time he had done this was at Oxford, well before the accident that stole his legs, and then it had hurt, considerably.

This; this felt like sliding into Erik's mind, a seamless merging of two people, with only electric sparks of pleasure that raced from the point of contact, spreading up and out until even Charles' fingertips tingled. Erik groaned; low and loud and so desperate Charles nearly lost focus enough for them to lose both the wall and the floor.

"I haven't... I haven't... I haven't..." he was chanting, hands scrambling against the damp of Charles' skin. Eventually he settled on holding Charles around the waist--Charles pleased by the decision--ducking his head to rest his forehead against Charles' shoulder. "Oh, God," he breathed.

Charles had no purchase in this position, so all he could do was cling to Erik and let Erik set the pace. Erik's movements were shaky and erratic; more often than not he stuttered to a stop and cursed against Charles' shoulder. When he did start moving, there was nothing graceful in his movements; no measure of finesse, only desperate, frenzied fucking that slammed Charles against the wall. Charles thought it rather spectacular.

There was something in Erik's desperateness that touched something deep in Charles' core. There was Erik's usual possessiveness, alongside the overwhelming passion that dictated everything Erik did, but beneath all that was an edge of vulnerability that Charles knew--even without looking--no one else had ever seen. It was humbling, to know how much he affected Erik--to be given so much of Erik's trust. It was that, more than anything that pushed Charles towards his edge.

The build to orgasm was a subtle thing; a fluttering in his abdomen that under normal circumstances tended to peter out, leaving him frustrated and wanting. Now it built in intensity--and this was why prostate stimulation was still good for him, something he'd discovered only after months of desperate trying--because now his orgasm was building steadily, leaving him an incoherent mess. When he did fall apart, it was with a weak spasm that caused his dick to twitch--something that had not happened in a very, very long time.

He was only vaguely aware of shouting Erik's name, something that seemed to push Erik over the edge, Erik's hips stuttering as his grip on Charles' waist grew impossibly tight. He groaned once, a shuddering, shaky sound that seeped through Charles' skin and settled in his heart, and then came, entire body tensing as he shuddered through his orgasm.

They stayed like that for a long while afterwards, Charles pressed against the wall, legs wrapped loosely around Erik's waist. Eventually Erik mustered enough strength to lift his head and make eye contact. Charles offered him a weak, though thoroughly satisfied smile. Erik grinned, and then helped Charles set his feet back on the ground.

It was almost ironic that his legs gave out beneath him. Erik caught him before he could hit the ground, a concerned look appearing on his face, but Charles merely shook his head, and then closed his eyes, slowly pulling them back towards their bodies. When next he opened his eyes, he was staring at Erik's decidedly flushed face, his undershirt damp with sweat, and his boxers sticky with traces of semen. _Huh_ , Charles thought, waiting for Erik to open his eyes. He smiled brightly.

"Hi," Erik said, returning the smile. His expression shifted a minute later, frown settling over his mouth as he glanced down at his boxers. He scowled his distaste.

"Indeed," Charles said, and they would probably both need showers before... "Wait, did we miss lunch?"

Erik glanced back up, amusement colouring his expression. "I'm sensing a theme here," he said. Charles shrugged, not in the least apologetic. "All right, first we clean up, then we eat, and then we need to see Mystique--she still has that list for you." Charles stretched.

"I'd also like to see Scott... I mean, Cyclops," Charles said, pushing himself up onto one elbow. Doing so instantly reminded him of his exhaustion--he had been tired before, but now he was verging on spontaneously losing consciousness. Looking at Erik, whose eyes were drooping heavily, he realized he wasn't the only one.

"Under normal circumstances I would growl and ask what the hell you want with Cyclops, but I think I'm a little too placated to care at the moment," Erik said. He appeared to be melting into the mattress.

Charles yawned. "What he said at the meeting. I want a look at what he's found. If these circuit boards are similar to Cerebro components, I'm probably the best person to talk to." That or Hank, Charles wanted to add, but the arm holding him up was beginning to shake, so he diverted his attention long enough to lower himself back onto the bed. He was still hungry, but not nearly enough to warrant attempting to get out of bed. Erik seemed to agree, his eyes having already fallen shut.

 _We're going to regret this_ , Charles thought, the mess in his boxers already starting to dry. The thought was no match for the warm embrace of approaching slumber.


	16. Chapter 16

Erik woke to the sound of someone pounding on his door. In as long as he could remember, no one had ever pounded on his door. He sat up slowly and glared in the direction of the offending noise. In the process of moving, his boxers caught against his skin, dried semen pulling against his pubic hair. Erik winced, and then reached down to adjust himself.

In the bed at his side, Charles mumbled something unintelligible and threw an arm over his face.

"If you are in there fucking your boyfriend, I am going to kill you," came Mystique's voice through the door. Erik swung his legs over the side of the bed and shook the sleep from his head. He stood on somewhat shaky legs--surprising considering he hadn't actually had to support Charles' weight with them--and padded to the dresser, where his discarded watch told him they'd been asleep for close to three hours.

"Shit," Erik muttered. He crossed to the door, swinging it open just as Mystique was about to start knocking again. Her fist connected with his nose. "Ow, fuck," he said, automatically bringing up a hand to feel for damage.

"Serves you right. Where the hell have you been?" Mystique asked, only then taking in Erik's attire--or lack thereof. She wrinkled her nose in disgust. "You were fucking him, you son of a bitch."

Erik's jaw clenched at the insult; he tolerated a lot of things from Mystique, but not that--never that. She seemed to realize what she'd said, her complexion turning ashen. Erik let his gaze harden.

"Sorry, I didn't mean to..."

"You are never to refer to my mother in such a manner again," Erik said, sounding far calmer than he actually felt. Mystique took a hesitant step back.

"I said I was sorry, but you're still an asshole. I can't believe you're in here canoodling with your paramour while I'm trying to keep this place from falling apart. You owe me, Erik."

Erik sighed and ran a hand through his hair. It was a chaotic mess--Erik could only imagine what he looked like. A glance back at the bed showed Charles beginning to stir--and from the looks of it Charles was just as dishevelled.

"Can you just tell me what the hell this is about, so that I can either do something about it or go back to bed," Erik finally said, not particularly wanting to get caught in a war of words with Mystique. She had a tendency to win.

Mystique crossed her arms and assumed a more neutral stance. She was very purposely not looking into the room--no doubt not wanting to raise Erik's ire if he thought her ogling Charles.

"Hank McCoy turned up at the Cerebro install--which, hey, great--except he started ripping out everything Shadowcat had done. He's redoing the install from scratch--and God knows how many days it's going to set us back--because apparently we are all idiots who can't follow a simple set of blueprints."

"Is he still there?" Erik asked. Mystique nodded. "Give me ten minutes and I'll meet you down there."

Mystique bowed her thanks, turned on her heel and then disappeared back down the hall. Erik closed the door behind her and turned back to the bed. Charles was propped up on his elbow, watching Erik intently. From this angle, he was breathtaking.

"Back to work already?" he asked.

Erik shrugged apologetically. "It might help if you came."

Charles pushed himself into a seated position. "You'll have to go ahead of me; I'll need a few minutes."

Erik nodded, already moving towards the bathroom. He needed a shower, but settled for running a washcloth over his more sticky parts, and then splashing his face with cold water. For the first time since meeting Charles, Erik was actually grateful for the helmet--at the very least it would hide his post-sex bedhead.

When he emerged from the bathroom, Charles was in his chair, toiletry bag and a change of clothes set in his lap.

"Are you done?" he asked. Erik nodded and let Charles claim the bathroom, sparing a moment to wonder when Charles would start trusting him enough to get ready while Erik was still in the room.

"You know where you're going?" Erik asked through the now closed bathroom door. A familiar, Charles-like presence filled his head.

 _So long as I can pinpoint Hank, I can find you_ , he said into Erik's mind. Erik let a surge of affection transfer over the link, and then headed to the door, not wanting to keep Mystique waiting. He waited until he was outside to put on the helmet, wanting to maintain their connection as long as possible. The sudden absence of Charles was almost painful.

It was a strange sensation, leaving his rooms, helmet secured atop his head, but without the commanding clock of Magneto strewn around his shoulders. Erik felt light, almost peaceful--and if ever he had been close to knowing peace, this, he suspected, was it. Risking Mystique's wrath, he stopped by his office first, where he found Rogue sitting in the antechamber, her feet propped on her desk while she filed her nails with an emery board. She looked thoroughly bored.

"What's up, Sugar?" she asked when Erik was fully in the room, not looking up from her task.

"I need you to head to the Deli across the street and bring back a sandwich," Erik said.

Rogue's nail file froze mid-stroke, her gaze finally coming away from her fingernails, expression incredulous as she stared across the desk at him.

"You want a sandwich."

"Not for me. For Charles," Erik explained. "And bring it to the Cerebro installation--that's where he'll be."

Rogue quirked an eyebrow, a smile lighting up her face. "You got it bad, honey." She laughed, removed her feet from the desk, and then swiftly stood, smoothing out the bodysuit she insisted on wearing. "Good thing you got me to do the heavy lifting," she said, still laughing. Erik endured the humiliation as stoically as he could.

"Just get the sandwich," he said when it looked like she was getting set to further taunt him. In response, she offered a sly wink, and then slinked out of the room. The things Erik suffered for Charles.

The walk to the Cerebro installation was short, and thankfully Erik didn't run into anyone else. When he arrived, the room was a scene of chaos. Erik passed through the central doorway--already fitting with a two-foot thick solid steel door, currently open to grant access to the site--and found Hank steadily ripping panelling off the walls, wire and cables strewn across the floor. Erik navigated a pile of coiled wires, and came to stand at the bottom of the scaffolding currently holding their visiting Beast.

Mystique was at his side within seconds.

"He's tearing apart all of our work, and whenever one of us tries to talk to him, he bares his teeth and growls," she said.

Erik glanced up just in time to see a particularly large steel plate falling towards him. He reached out with his power and caught the thing--and it was incredibly heavy; would have killed him instantly--and set it gently on the grate walkway that stood between this room and the one below, both hollowed out to accommodate Cerebro's sphere.

"Has he explained why he's doing this?"

"He says the configuration is wrong; that the way we have it set up will fry Charles' brain."

Erik blanched, horror pooling in the pit of his stomach. "Is there a reason, then, that we're trying to stop him, because I for one would rather we not fry Charles' brain." Or any other part of Charles, for that matter, Erik didn't say. Mystique shook her head.

"Shadowcat has been over his plans a dozen times. She worked out the necessary configuration--and according to her it's safe," she said.

Erik hesitated. Kitty wasn't the type to make mistakes--and she probably rivaled Hank for genius. Still, it was entirely possible she had made a miscalculation, or had misinterpreted one of Hank's diagrams--the man did have chicken scrawl for writing.

"Perhaps it would be best to wait until Charles joins us," he said. Mystique rolled her eyes. She was doing that a lot lately.

"Fine," she said, "but every panel he tears down is costing us an hour's worth of work."

Erik sighed, and then glanced up, finding Hank already busy at work on the next panel. In about ten minutes it too was going to come crashing down, so Erik grabbed Mystique's arm and pulled her out of the line of fire. He flagged down a passing Jubilee and instructed her to secure an off-limits perimeter around Hank's work space.

"Charles won't be long," Erik reassured Mystique once that was done, wondering briefly what exactly was taking the man so long.

~*~

Charles eyed Erik's tub regretfully before retrieving a washcloth from beneath the sink and then wetting it thoroughly. He wanted a shower, or maybe a quick soak, but there was no getting into Erik's bathtub without help--he had only managed this morning with Ms. Carter's aid. If he was going to remain in Genosha for any extended period of time--and Charles was starting to think he might just want that--he was going to have to get Erik to install some bars.

He put the thought out of his mind--for the time being, at least--and carefully removed his soiled boxers, and then began the steady process of cleaning off dried semen.

There wasn't a lot--though certainly more than he had produced in the years since his paralysis--and he couldn't feel where it stuck and pulled against his skin, but he still felt cleaner--proper--once it was cleaned off. Next he went about emptying his bladder.

It was utterly ridiculous how long it took him to do these things, no matter how used to it he was, but he still took his time getting dressed, needing to wake up--in truth taking Erik to the astral plane had been far more exhausting than their previous shared experience. Until recently, he thought he had fully explored every aspect of his telepathy--thought he had developed it to the point of being able to use it without effort, but it was obvious there were some aspects of his telepathy that had been neglected. Using them now was like using entirely new muscles--it left Charles aching and exhausted, though feeling incredibly accomplished.

He needed far more than three hours sleep.

And food, his stomach reminded him with a rumble. Charles tutted, frowning down at it even as he buttoned his shirt. First there was Hank to deal with, and then, provided no other emergencies popped up, he was going to take Erik to lunch--although it would likely end up being dinner--so that they could eat a meal together without arguing ideology.

It was a good plan, Charles thought to himself, finishing his shirt. He reached down to lift a leg next, threading it into a pair of boxers and trousers, already merged together. He did the same with the other leg, and then it was simply a matter of pushing down into his chair, bracing against the back of it with one arm while his free hand shifted the material into place. When he was finished, he glanced up into the mirror, seeing his reflection for the first time in what felt like ages.

It was a strange thing, to realize how long it had been since he had last looked--truly looked--in a mirror. Oh, there were the occasional glances--to make sure his hair was tidy, or that he didn't have spinach in his teeth, but this, this was scrutiny.

 _I'm getting old_ , Charles thought, and then laughed, because he certainly didn't feel old. He felt newly in love, like a young man, set to conquer the world. The smile that reflected back at him was marred with lines, but he looked happy--frighteningly happy.

"You're a complete fool," he told his reflection, running his hand through his starting-to-thin hair.

His reflection held no answer, so Charles quickly finished dressing--socks, shoes, a belt and sweater--and then left the bathroom, pausing only long enough to finish his half drank scotch from earlier before heading out the door.

The Brotherhood's Genosha compound was a maze of halls and lifts--designed to both take advantage of the surrounding scenery and confuse any intruders who might breach its outer perimeter. Charles knew the Cerebro installation was on the ground level, so he rode the lift there and then reached out with his telepathy. He found Hank almost immediately.

Hanks thoughts were startlingly familiar--they held the same cadence that Charles associated with Hank working. It was impossible to read Hank's mind when he was like this--his thoughts coming too fast and furious for Charles to make any sense of them--but Charles read enough to know that whatever Hank was doing was getting them closer to their goal. He turned his chair in Hank's direction, and let Hank's chaotic brilliance lead him to Erik.

It would have been easy to find Cerebro, even without Hank, once Charles got to the right wing. The entire area was a hive of activity, mutants dashing about, their thoughts filled with urgency and excitement. A resounding crash came from the end of a long hall, so Charles turned in that direction, eventually arriving outside the door of a frighteningly accurate Cerebro re-creation.

It was missing its panels, but the frame was the same, the space an exact duplicate in size to the one that sat beneath his home in Westchester. Charles wheeled through the doors, spotting Erik instantly. He was standing next to Mystique, the pair of them staring up at Hank as he systematically removed block after block of incorrectly installed panels.

Charles wheeled himself to Erik's side. Erik started when he noticed him.

"You made it," he said, smiling brightly, seeming immensely pleased by Charles' arrival. In his hand he was holding a white-paper bag. He handed it Charles.

Charles accepted the package with a quirked eyebrow, but Erik merely shrugged and then turned his attention back to Hank. Charles opened the bag. Inside, he found a pastrami sandwich. His stomach rumbled appreciatively.

"Oh, Erik," he said, and then, because it was obvious Erik was a little frazzled by what Hank was doing to his room, added, "you did have it wrong, by the way, but it was an honest mistake. Hold on, I think I have an easier way to do this." He let his mind drift up to where Hank crouched, growling over a stubborn lug nut. Hank glanced up, then down over the side of the scaffolding. He nodded at Charles, put down his ratchet, and leaped from his platform.

Charles took a bite of his sandwich just as Hank hit the ground. He stood swiftly and then crossed over to stand before Charles' chair. He offered a tentative smile--a peace offering, or perhaps a tentative truce. Charles let his smile grow fond.

"They were doing it wrong. It would have killed you," Hank said. Charles nodded, looking to Erik, who was staring at Charles with wide, panicked eyes. He swallowed his bite of sandwich--and God was it good--before speaking.

"It's all right. No harm done," he said, mostly for Erik's benefit. "But still, it seems a waste to spend all this time removing and reattaching these panels manually."

Hank tilted his head, expression betraying his confusion. He was studiously ignoring everyone in the room save Charles. Charles gave Erik a pointed look. Hank wilted at that, but he gave a brief nod. Charles turned to face Erik.

"If I implant an image in your mind of how all of this is supposed to look, can you duplicate it, with the actual panels?"

For a moment Erik looked dumbstruck--and Charles suspected, had he been able to read Erik's mind, that Erik was probably kicking himself for not having considered this sooner. Finally, he gave a firm nod, glanced around the room, and then reached up to remove his helmet.

Charles knew instantly that Erik was extremely uncomfortable without the helmet--and he suspected the only reason Erik had even agreed to remove it was because there was no one here capable of manipulating minds--so Charles worked quickly, transferring the information from Hank's mind directly into Erik's, finishing off with the telepathic equivalent of a lingering caress. Erik smiled, and then slipped his helmet back into place.

"I'd suggest everyone clear the room," he announced, moving to stand in the middle of the room. One by one the others in the room cleared out into the hall, Mystique, Hank and Charles included. They paused outside the door to watch.

It never ceased to be thrilling, watching Erik work. First he collapsed all the scaffolding and moved it out of the way, then he lined the panels along the floor in the order in which they were to be installed, and finally he began lifting each piece, fitting them into their positions with raised hands, the strain of it obvious in the sweat that appeared on his face.

Charles marvelled, and at his side he could sense that Hank was equally as impressed--though his thoughts still held disdain where Erik was concerned. Mystique--and Charles realized then that she was Erik's equivalent to his Hank--beamed with pride, her affection for Erik brotherly and just a touch maternal.

"We should have dinner tonight, all of us," Charles announced suddenly, seeing then so many similarities between them--wanting to bring his and Erik's worlds together, to show Hank that these people could be trusted, that they weren't the bogeymen the stories made them out to be.

The suggestion was like pouring cold water over their heads. They turned to stare at him in unison, Erik forgotten, Mystique's thoughts coloured by confused amusement, Hank's by outright incredulity.

"I mean, if no one else has plans," Charles clarified, feeling himself flush under their scrutiny.

He turned his attention back to Erik, watching as Erik continued to build Cerebro, piece by agonizing piece, his shoulders drooping now. The panels were heavy, but more than that, their positioning required incredible precision--any misalignment would mean at best Cerebro not working; at worst Cerebro destroying Charles' brain.

An hour passed before the final panel was slotted into position--and hour during which Charles ate his sandwich and endured side-long glances from both Mystique and Hank. Once, a girl in a yellow dust jacket came over to speak with Mystique, but aside from that there was little to do save watch Erik.

It was clear Erik was visibly drained. Half an hour ago Mystique had cleared the hall, sending everyone save the three of them away--a measure of how well she knew Erik, because Erik would have hated anyone seeing his vulnerability. As soon as Charles deemed it safe--more so for Erik's piece of mind than his own safety--he wheeled into the room, coming to rest at Erik's side. He reached a hand forward to slide it into Erik's, Erik squeezing briefly before letting his hand relax--still loosely wrapped in Charles'.

"I think I'm going to need another nap," Erik said with a self-deprecating chuckle. Charles smiled brightly at the sound.

He meant to tell Erik that he had no objections, but before he could, Mystique appeared, fussing over Erik in a way that made Charles feel vaguely territorial--not an emotion he was used to having, but he rather felt it his job to ensure Erik's well being.

"That was a stupid thing to do," she said. Erik stood a little straighter and squared his shoulders. He still looked ready to fall over.

"But it's done." He turned to face Hank, who had followed them into the room and was now examining Erik's handwork. "Isn't it?" Erik asked.

Charles listened as Hank's mind scrutinized Erik's work, finding no fault in any of the panels--or their positioning. He nodded once, satisfied, before turning to Erik.

"It's good," he said. Erik smiled, a genuine thing that held more pride at Hank's approval than Charles would have expected.

"How long before it's operational?"

Hank's thoughts grew distant--in the way that they did when he was working out a problem.

"I probably need about 24 hours. Setting up the interface isn't going to take long, but after that I'll need to run some processes and then do systems-wide diagnostics. Charles isn't touching it until I give the go ahead."

"Agreed," Erik said. He reached out then and clapped Hank on the shoulder. Hank startled at the contact, and then stepped back--too late, Erik's hand having already returned to his side--grunting out a weak, ineffective growl. Erik merely raised an eyebrow.

It didn't leave much room for Hank to object, so he let his lip curl and then turned his back on them, stalking over to where a neat pile of electronics and computer equipment sat; the makings of Cerebro's interface.

"Give me a moment," Charles said, extracting his hand from Erik's and then wheeling over to where Hank was busy sorting through cables. Hank glanced over once Charles arrived.

"You're not going to go home, are you? I mean, even after you find Stryker for them, you're not going to leave."

It struck Charles then how awkward this must be for Hank--being so removed from everything he knew. It was a strange thing, because Hank had always been his rock, and yet here Charles was, in this new and different place, and aside from the occasional swell of panic, he had yet to dissolve into a full attack. Instead it was Hank--steady, reliable Hank--who looked poised to fall over.

"Westchester will always be my home. And yours," Charles said, meaning it. Even if he chose to stay here--for however long that might be--Westchester would always be home.

"I don't mind it here, you know," Hank said. He'd turned away from Charles and was now installing circuit boards into their chassis. "The weather is nice and no one stares at me like I'm a freak. It makes Linda a little nervous, but I think she's starting to like the amenities. She's discovered a passion for shopping."

Charles chuckled--the Xavier estate was rather remote and didn't tend to offer many options for getting out.

"But I don't agree with a lot of their methods, or their ideologies," and Charles knew he was talking more about Erik than the Brotherhood, "and I don't particularly want to be associated with the things they have done, or will do."

"You don't believe people can change?" Charles asked, because if that were the case, then Hank had more in common with the Brotherhood's governing principles than he might be willing to admit.

"Over a diversified whole, yes," Hank said, negating Charles' point even before Charles could make it, "but as individuals; I think most of us are too stubborn, too stuck in our ways to effect real change."

It was a depressing thought, and one Charles didn't intend to agree with. Everyone was capable of change--and most people did change, in slow increments over the span of their lives. Charles had changed--a thousand times over--Hank, too, if only he would see it. And Erik had changed. They were all capable of being better men.

"Join Erik and I for dinner tonight," Charles said. The circuit board in Hank's hand clattered down onto the shelving he was using for a workspace. "Bring Linda, and Erik will invite Mystique and her... whomever. Let me show you that we are not so different. That there are points of commonality.

"If, after tonight, you still feel as you do, then when this is done, you and Linda can return to Westchester. I'll make arrangements to make you both the official caretakers while I'm here. But, please, give Erik a chance to show you the man I know him to be. I have seen his mind, Hank, and he is a good man; despite everything in his past, he is a good man."

For the longest moment Hank didn't say anything, staring intently at a cooling fan. He turned then, meeting Charles' eye for the first time since this conversation began.

"Good man or not, he is still a dangerous man," he said.

"We are all dangerous men," Charles countered.

Hank hesitated, and then gave a defeated sigh, shaking his head before responding. "You'll have to make it a late supper--I still have a lot of work ahead of me."

Charles smiled with gratitude. "Thank you," he said, but Hank was already waving him away, intent on finishing his work, Cerebro now holding his full attention. Charles left his side and wheeled back to where Erik and Mystique stood, watching them.

"Everything okay?" Erik asked. Charles nodded. "In that case," he looked pointedly at Mystique, who handed over a manila envelope.

"Stryker's known associates," she said. "You're probably going to need them sooner rather than later. "Also, Erik mentioned you wanted to see Cyclops. I'm to take you to him."

"Excellent, Charles said, tucking the envelope into the pocket on the side of his chair. He turned to Erik. "I've invited Hank and Linda to supper tonight. I thought it might be nice if everyone got to know one another." He glanced pointedly in Mystique's direction.

Erik tilted his head, but his expression betrayed his skepticism. Charles mustered his most beseeching look, feeling a spike of amusement the moment Erik caved.

"Fine, nine o'clock, we'll use the formal dining hall. Mystique, when you're done taking Charles to see Cyclops, inform the kitchen staff. And yes, you are expected to attend. Invite whomever you like."

Mystique's glare was icy, but Erik stared her down. Charles was somewhat impressed when she finally acceded to his wishes--from the shape of her thoughts, Charles had been expecting her to outright refuse, with violence if necessary. Charles turned his attention back to Erik.

"Do you need me to..." he gestured, uncertain, but Erik merely shook his head.

"I'll be fine, just in need of a shower and some coffee. Then, sadly, I have a few things to take care of. I'll see you at dinner," he said, bending down to press their lips together in a chaste, though lingering kiss. "If you need anything, just ask Mystique, she'll be happy to accommodate."

From the look Mystique was giving them, she would be nothing of the kind, but Charles still nodded his thanks, regretfully leaving Erik's side to follow Mystique from the room.


	17. Chapter 17

"I think I might owe Beast an apology," Mystique said as they navigated the halls, on their way to the Danger Room, where Cyclops was apparently running a training simulation.

"You thought he was trying to purposely delay the installation," Charles said. Mystique glanced in his direction. She was maintaining a clipped pace, and Charles struggled to keep up.

"I tend to trust that Shadowcat knows what she's doing. If he hadn't interfered, we probably would have killed you. I don't even want to think about what Erik would have done had that happened. Beast saved your life, which in turn saved ours."

Charles smiled, trying to look reassuring. From what he'd seen, it was unlikely Shadowcat's configuration would have killed him. He told Mystique as much, neglecting to mention that the experience wouldn't have been pleasant, and that he wasn't entirely certain he would have emerged with his mind intact. Mystique didn't need to know that.

"It was a ballsy thing he did, standing up to us like that," Mystique said, and there was admiration in both her tone and her thoughts. Hank would have been horrified to hear it.

"I think Hank would appreciate an apology," Charles said. It was the sort of thing Hank might see as an olive branch.

Whatever else Mystique might have had to say on the subject was lost, her thoughts shifting as they turned a corner. Even without asking Charles knew they had arrived. He slowed his chair--arms sore from keeping up--and then followed Mystique into a glass-walled control room that overlooked a large, gymnasium-like space. Cyclops sat at the control panel.

"Good timing," he said, flicking several switches. "We're just finishing up." Into the microphone, he said, "Three point eight minutes, Alex. You're dead eight times over. We'll run it again in the morning."

Charles didn't need his telepathy to know the men were brothers, the man standing in the gymnasium--Alex, Scott had called him, though Mystique's mind named him Havok--a younger duplicate of Cyclops.

"Mr. Summers," Charles said, wheeling forward to offer a hand. Scott accepted it without hesitation.

"Please, it's Cyclops--Scott if you insist," he said. "Magneto called down to say you were coming."

Charles nodded and stared at the visor Scott wore, hiding his eyes. For inexplicable reasons, it made reading his mind easier. Scott's thoughts were the most innocuous Charles had ever heard. Mostly he was thinking about heading out for a beer after they were finished.

"You're here about those components I traced. I think I might have something better," Scott said, standing and gesturing to the door. In the gymnasium below, Alex was putting away an assortment of weapons.

Scott led them out into the hall and across to a room that might have at one point been a storage room--now it looked like a workroom or incredibly messy office. A desk had been pushed into the corner, and on it were stacks of papers, as well as several bits of equipment--some Charles doubted even Hank would be able to identify.

More papers sat in piles on the floor, and there were an assortment of books--most engineering in nature, though a few Charles thought belonged exclusively to the field of mathematics.

"I don't understand half of it," Scott explained, "but I'm great at finding patterns. Take this, for instance," he said, handing over the sheets he'd brought to the meeting this morning--and had it really only been this morning? Time in this place seemed to blur together into infinite stretches that defied calculation.

Charles accepted the sheets, recognizing what Scott had seen almost immediately. He knew Cerebro's components intimately.

"This is similar to Cerebro's amplification circuitry, except its inverted. Cerebro's component amplifies my telepathy, whereas this would probably dampen it."

"Precisely," Scott said, moving on to a whole new stack of papers. "So I thought; if they're making one component in Peru, where are they making other components? I began tracing supply lines."

Charles, who had been listening to Scott's thoughts rather than his words, was already several sentences ahead in their conversation. He sat forward excitedly.

"And you've found some. Enough to give us a preliminary picture of how these things are designed."

Scott nodded. It was clear he was a very clever man--Charles liked him immediately.

"And I think, within a couple of days, I might have enough to build a prototype."

And that presented all sorts of interesting possibilities, though Charles was still too excited by what Scott had already found--because if the images in Scott's head were accurate, then Charles suspected he knew exactly how these things worked. He suspected, too, that there was a very distinct possibility they wouldn't work on a telepath--or rather, that a telepath could work around the dampening field. He wondered if Stryker had figured that out yet.

Mystique, who was lounging by the door, looking bored--though her thoughts betrayed just how alert she was, and how much of their conversation she had absorbed--straightened suddenly. She ducked her head out the door and glanced down the hall.

"Problem?" Scott asked. Charles answered for her.

"Emma Frost is looking for you. Go ahead," he said, "I'm sure I can find my way back."

Mystique nodded her thanks, tipped her head in Scott's direction, and then said, "I guess I'll see you at dinner," before slipping out the door.

Charles waited until she was gone to turn his attention back to Scott. "I'll need to see everything--and I mean everything--you've uncovered so far."

Scott leaned back in his chair, his thoughts lamenting that beer he probably wouldn't get around to. Still, he was smiling when he reached over to the shelf at his side and retrieved a spiral notebook.

"You'll want to see this," he said, handing it over.

Charles could have spent days going over Scott's notes. While this wasn't his field of expertise, the process was familiar--this was the same scientific investigation that accompanied every field of science, including genetics. Within hours Charles was seriously missing his labs back in Westchester.

He read everything Scott gave him, and then made several notes in a clean spiral notebook that Scott managed to retrieve at Charles' request. More notes covered a small chalkboard that stood propped on the window ledge, and Charles added to these, until between the two of them they had a half complete idea of what the collars looked like--and how they worked.

"We're still missing whatever it is that transfers the wearer's powers to a third party--that's important--and there are probably mechanisms that prevent a wearer from simply removing the collar on their own," Scott said. He lifted the chalkboard and sat it on the desk.

Charles blinked when he realized sunlight wasn't streaming in the now uncovered window. Night had descended without him realizing it.

"What time is it?" he asked, realizing then that he'd forgotten his watch in his rush to meet Erik at the Cerebro installation.

Scott glanced at his. "Eight," he said. Scott's thoughts showed that he was just as surprised as Charles.

"I'm sorry to do this, but I'm afraid I have to go. Thank you for everything. I'm going to take this," Charles held up his new spiral notebook. "If you find anything else, please let me know."

Scott nodded, but he was still staring at the chalkboard, mind catching on the hint of a pattern, though not yet seeing what that pattern was. Charles left him to it and wheeled out into the hall.

Getting back to the main hall was easy, but his trip here from Cerebro--and in his mind he was calling it Cerebro the second--had passed so quickly that Charles wasn't sure he could duplicate it if he tried. He wanted to go back to his and Erik's rooms--to clean up and perhaps trade out his sweater for a jacket--but finding the lifts that would take him there was somewhat beyond his abilities. Charles cursed the building's architects, even as he fought off the approach of a panic attack.

It was strange, to feel his breathing shallow. Since his arrival in the compound, he had felt entirely at ease--as comfortable here as he was in Westchester--but now that he was on his own and turned around, a familiar pressure of uncertainty was building in his chest. Charles exhaled steadily and cast his mind out for a familiar thought.

Strangely enough, he found Emma Frost.

She was no longer with Mystique, but walking alone, mind bent on running some figures for a stock split she wanted to initiate. Emma, it appeared, was the Brotherhood's business face--and from what Charles could tell, she was exceptionally good at her job.

 _Charles Xavier. You're lost_ , she said, sounding amused. From the feel of it, she was at least three halls over. Waves of calm accompanied her words, Charles immediately grateful.

 _I am. And running late_ , Charles replied, giving her a sense of what he was looking for and where he currently was--though given how much every hall he encountered looked the same, he doubted it helped.

Still, speaking with another telepath was an experience Charles would never grow tired of; it was utterly delightful, and instantly improved his mood, his threatened panic attack dissolving completely.

 _Here_ , Emma said, and just like that Charles had a map of the entire compound in his head. A second later, a map of the city appeared as well, Charles' head swelling with newfound knowledge.

 _My dear, I can't thank you enough_ , Charles said, kicking himself now, because he had been going the wrong way.

 _Buy me lunch tomorrow and we'll call it even_ , Emma said, and Charles could tell that she was just as delighted to have met another telepath. He could tell, too, in the tentativeness of the question, that Emma Frost had few friends, but saw Charles as a potential one.

 _Of course_ , Charles said. _Tomorrow?_

Emma floated her acceptance into his mind, arranging a time and place with the press of a single thought. By the time she vanished, Charles was smiling, feeling that same sense of home that he associated with Westchester, and Erik, and now Genosha.

It took next to no time to return to his rooms now that he knew where he was going. To his disappointment, Erik was nowhere to be found, so Charles quickly saw to his needs, changed his shirt and then left, intending to stop at Cerebro the second to gather Hank--the man had an even worse sense of time than Charles did.

It was no surprise, then, when he found Hank, still busy at work.

"I thought you might forget," Charles said, wheeling into the room. Hank glanced up from his work, startled.

"Am I late?" he asked, his thoughts still focused on the processes he'd been running, dinner the last thing on his mind.

"Not yet," Charles said. "But you will be."

"No, he won't," came a voice from the doorway. Charles turned just in time to watch Linda step into the room. She wore a floor-length black evening dress, her dark hair in ringlets around her shoulders.

Charles turned back to Hank and found him staring at Linda; eyes blown wide, his cheeks flushed a deep violet. The sight brought a smile to Charles' face.

"In that case, since we're all here, perhaps we should attempt to find the formal dining hall together," Charles said. He gestured for Hank to precede him out the door, Hank only moving because Linda had extended a hand.

"I'm glad you decided to do this," Linda said when he got to her side. Her thoughts reflected her pleasure at their reconciliation. She had been worrying, for both their sakes.

It was easy to find the formal dining hall now that he had Emma's map in his head. As they approached the room, he let his thoughts drift ahead, pleasantly surprised when he found the familiar warmth of Erik's mind--he had worried Erik would be wearing the helmet. Charles reached out to touch Erik's thoughts hesitantly, a surge of affection and longing hitting him when Erik realized he was there. No longer needing Emma's map, Charles let Erik's mind guide them like a beacon.

When they finally arrived, Mystique and her companion--Destiny, her mind provided--were already there. Destiny's mind was a chaotic place that Charles recoiled from the second he brushed against it. Charles had never met a precognitive. He couldn't imagine how difficult it would be to live with such knowledge. The dark vortex of her thoughts frightened him, but they terrified her. Sympathy welled in Charles' breast.

"Sorry we're late," he said, coming fully into the room, which he could see now was actually a dining hall--he had thought Erik exaggerating. A long, rectangular table occupied the centre of the space, its wood a dark, polished oak. Matching chairs sat evenly spaced along either side, with a slightly largely chair at its head. Their seat cushions were upholstered in rich red velvet.

The room, much to Charles' amusement, reminded him of what he imagined a Victorian gentleman's club might have looked like. The walls were paneled in the same oak as the table. Set in the corner were two towering wing-back chairs, a small table--perfect for a chess set, Charles' mind provided--set between them. Behind the table's head was a liquor cabinet, and on the far wall sat a sideboard, its surface occupied by a single bell. Directly opposite the table's foot--which held no chair--was a set of extra-wide French doors, stood open to reveal another room and inside what appeared to be a billiards table.

"Quite all right," Erik said, coming to Charles' side. He bent smoothly and pressed a soft kiss to the edge of Charles' mouth, his thoughts hinting at his desire for more. Charles smiled when they parted, unable to tear his gaze from Erik's face. Erik seemed to be having the same problem, and for a moment they merely stared at one another.

Charles glanced away first, scolding himself in the process--it had only been six hours; surely he could go six hours without seeing Erik. He let his attention drift over Erik's right shoulder. Standing shoulder to shoulder, Mystique and Destiny seemed hesitant, uncertain what was expected of them. They were obviously here because Erik--or perhaps Magneto--had invited them, but they were unused to socializing with the Brotherhood's guests--and to be fair, the Brotherhood very rarely had guests. Charles shared the thought with Erik, who rolled his eyes and then glanced over his shoulder to scowl at the pair of them.

He turned his attention to Hank and Linda.

"I'm glad you could make it," he said, extending a hand to Linda. She accepted it politely. "May I introduce my second in command, Mystique, and her companion for this evening, Destiny." He turned to Destiny and Mystique. "And this is Hank McCoy and Linda Carter, Charles' friends and companions."

Introductions made, Erik gestured everyone to the table, pausing only long enough to ring the bell that sat atop the sideboard. A door Charles hadn't noticed--because it blended seamlessly into the wall--swung open and a group of mutants appeared, carrying a wide variety of serving trays. Charles, who sat at Erik's right, raised an appraising eyebrow in Erik's direction. Erik merely shrugged, but the beginnings of a smirk tugged at his lip. Charles had wanted a dinner and it was clear Erik had provided.

~*~

As much as he hated to admit it, Erik was having a good time. Technically, he always had a good time when he was around Charles--and this, he suspected, was part of what he loved about Charles, because Erik had spent too much of his life ignoring the more pleasant aspects of life, and Charles had changed that. Things like good food and good company and good sex and good conversation he had filed under unnecessary distractions. He was only just now beginning to see their value.

"Please, only stodgy old men play chess," Mystique was saying, drawing a chuckle from Destiny--though that was hardly unexpected; the pair had been attached at the hip the entire dinner.

How the conversation had turned to chess, Erik didn't know--he'd spent the last ten minutes staring at the red of Charles' lips and wondering how much longer they were expected to linger before he could take Charles back to their rooms. They had been talking about the latest Blackbird upgrade before that--one of the few conversations Hank had contributed to--and before that it had been the recent U.S. Presidential election.

Erik set his drink down on the table--only recently cleared of their supper--intent on responding to Mystique's slur, but Charles beat him to it.

"Let me guess," he said, drawing his fingers to his temple. "You're a charades sort of girl." This sent Destiny off into another peel of laughter--and so far only Charles had matched her for drinks, not that the damned man seemed in the least drunk.

"I also play billiards," Mystique said, gesturing over her shoulder through the French doors that separated the dining hall from the games' room. Erik hated that they had a games' room, but Emma had been right when she suggested it; it did improve moral.

"Oh, that sounds like a challenge," Charles said, and Erik choked on his next mouthful of martini. For the first time since they'd met, Charles was in over his head.

Mystique stood then, head held high, even as she wobbled slightly. She hadn't had as much to drink as Destiny, but her body metabolized the alcohol faster, which meant she both got drunk and sobered up a lot faster.

"You, sir, are about to get your ass kicked," she said. Destiny cheered. She glanced to the others at the table, her expression conspiratorial.

"She is," she said, the white of her eyes seeming almost translucent in that moment.

"I nominate Destiny as my cheerleader," Mystique said, already crossing to the French doors. Erik watched in horror as Charles turn to look in his direction, expression expectant. There was something about the dopey grin he wore that tugged at Erik's heart.

"I love you dearly, Charles, but do I look stupid?" he asked. Charles cocked his head, expression softening considerably even as his eyes widened with shock. Erik replayed what he'd just said. "I said that out loud, didn't I?"

"You did," Charles said, smiling warmly. Erik sent him a pleading thought; a request to ignore the slip until they had a moment to themselves. Charles acceded with a small nod of his head.

"My point is, she's going to mop the floor with you," Erik said.

Charles laughed at that, so Erik offered him a sympathetic smiled--one that said: it's too late now, you've gotten yourself into this mess you need to get yourself out. Charles gave a mocking bow, complete with hand flourish.

"I'll be my own cheerleader," he announced.

Which is precisely when Erik remembered the table's other occupants, because until now, Linda and Hank had been strangely quiet, all polite conversation--save Hank's excited input where the Blackbird was concerned--while Erik's minions--and given their current escapades, they were both deserving of the title--had been loud, obnoxious and drunk.

At least Erik wasn't the only one having a good time.

Linda stood gracefully--and she was rather graceful, for a human. She patted Hank's hand and then circled around the table to Charles' side.

"I would be more than happy to stand in as your cheerleader, Charles," she said. Charles beamed at her.

"You have my eternal gratitude, Ms. Carter," he said, offering an arm.

She had to bend down to accept it, but she did it without making the gesture seem offensive, allowing Charles to lead her towards the games' room. Erik watched them go, mildly surprised when Charles turned up in his head.

 _Play nice with Hank, and I'll need another drink in a minute or two_ , he said. Erik choked back a _yes, dear_ and instead sent Charles an image of exactly what other uses they could find for said billiards table. It was hardly the first time his thoughts had turned in that direction. Spending any significant amount of time in Charles' presence tended to excite such interest.

Erik felt delightfully vindicated when Charles choked on his next mouthful of whiskey. He felt rather than saw Charles' glare.

Under normal circumstances, Erik would have followed the others into the room; would have watched the game as it played out, reveling in the sight of Charles leaning forward in his chair, fingers caressing the pool cue, but Linda's abrupt departure--especially given how silent she'd been all night--suggested that her leaving had been orchestrated. Erik took another sip of his drink and then turned his head to find Hank watching him.

"I'm assuming you had something you wanted to say to me, outside of Charles' hearing."

Hank stood and moved around the table, coming to stand next to liquor cabinet. He leaned against it and calmly met Erik's eye.

"Does Charles know how many men you've killed?" he asked.

And ah, of course this was where this was going--it was probably the only reason Hank had agreed to come tonight.

"Charles knows everything about me, I would imagine," Erik said, and that probably wasn't true, because Charles hadn't run screaming yet and that tended to be what people who knew him exceptionally well did. It was what Magda had done.

It was not, however, enough to put Hank off. He leaned forward.

"Out of curiosity, how many men have you killed?" he asked. He was faking casual indifference--rather badly Erik thought.

Erik's first instinct was to tell Hank it was none of his business; to throw him out of the room, Charles' ire be damned, but that, he suspected, was Magneto talking, so instead he calmly leaned back into his chair, took a sip of his martini and decided upon telling Hank the truth.

After all, what did he have to lose?

"Let's see," Erik said, voice eerily calm. "I killed my first two men when I was nine. An accident, of course; my mother had just been murdered and I'd lost control of my powers--I crushed their Nazi skulls beneath their helmets, if you must know."

Hank's expression fell. He stared at Erik in abject horror. Erik mentally tallied a point in his favour. A quick glance through the French doors showed Charles bent over the table, Linda leaning against the back of his chair to keep it from tipping over.

"I killed a lot of men after that, though never of my own free will," Erik continued, turning his attention back to Hank. "Doktor Schmidt would regularly bring in subjects and have me kill them in all sorts of interesting ways, but I suspect you mean how many men have I killed knowingly, and of my own free will."

When Hank didn't answer, Erik pressed on. He felt a little like he imagined Charles must have felt, that first night when he had given his speech. There was no emotion in Erik's tone--only the certainty of what was past; what was long buried.

He set his arm on the table and rolled up his sleeve.

"I killed the man who gave me this," he said, pulling aside the fabric to reveal the line of numbers tattooed on his arm. "I killed the soldier who spat on my mother as they led us into Auschwitz. I killed the solider that beat my mother with the butt of his gun when she refused to let us be separated. I killed the man Doktor Schmidt had flog me when I didn't respond fast enough to his demands."

Here Erik paused, not because the story meant anything to him anymore--he was no longer that boy--but because he knew he couldn't say it without sounding detached and in those moments he worried that Schmidt had done what he'd set out to do; that he had made Erik nothing more than a machine; a monster whose sole purpose was killing.

He pressed on.

"I killed the two soldiers Doktor Schmidt had rape me when I was eleven. I killed the solider who threw me into a pile of rotting corpses when I was thirteen." And that had been worse; far, far worse. "I killed the Nazi who called me _Juden_ like it was a disease. I killed the young officer--though he was a middle aged man when he died--who liked to tie a rope around my neck and drag me through the yard, because Doktor Schmidt determined the fresh air and exercise would be good for me. I killed the officer's three friends, who used to watch and laugh and hurl taunts in my direction.

"I killed the man who struck the woman I loved, simply because she refused his advances--she thanked me by fleeing from me in terror, if you're curious. I killed twelve high ranking Nazi officers, all of whom had some hand in tracking, arresting and incarcerating my family. And then I killed Klaus Schmidt. After that, I stopped keeping count."

By the time he had finished, Hank looked a little green--an amazing feat given his physiology. Erik slowly rolled down his sleeve and refastened his cuff-link. He turned his head to look through the French doors. Mystique was crowing, and Charles' brow was furrowed in concentration. Mystique was kicking his ass.

Erik stood then and crossed to the liquor cabinet, waving Hank aside--who moved surprisingly quickly, head bent to avoid Erik's gaze. Erik fixed himself another martini, and then pulled down a fresh glass for Charles. He uncapped a new bottle of whiskey--the last one drained.

"Is that too many for you?" he asked, still sounding far, far too detached. Hank wore an expression Erik knew well--half pity, half revulsion. "Does Charles come with a body count limit?"

Hank looked up sharply at that. In two strides he was in Erik's space and for a moment Erik thought Hank meant to throttle him. Instead, he reached across Erik's chest to stop the hand currently pouring Charles' next drink. Erik used his power to grasp Hank by his watch and move his hand away. His expression turned hard as he turned to meet Hank's gaze.

"At least water it down," Hank said.

Erik narrowed his eyes, suddenly confused. "He's not a child, you know."

Hank's expression was hard to classified, but if Erik had to, he'd say that for the first time since their meeting Hank was looking at him as an equal. It was enough to stay Erik's hand, the newly open bottle setting down on the cabinet, Charles' glass remaining empty.

"You said you loved him. Earlier," Hank clarified. "You said you loved him, and if you do--if you honestly care about him, then I can forgive you a good many things, including your past, but I can't forgive this. If you enable this; I will tear you apart, no matter how much Charles hates me for it."

Erik drew back, uncertain. This was not something he had expected. He watched, still and silent, as Hank crossed back to the table, sitting heavily. He leaned back into his chair and tipped his head. Erik spared a single glance through the French doors--and found the match still well underway--and then came to claim the seat opposite Hank's.

"What the hell do you mean; enable this?"

Hank looked up, startled--perhaps not expecting Erik to want this conversation. He exhaled, looking momentarily defeated. He glanced briefly into the other room, and then met Erik's eye.

"It's not the paralysis, you know."

"Excuse me?" Erik said, suddenly angry.

"His drinking. It's not the paralysis." Hank had leaned forward across the table and was staring directly at Erik, unflinching. Erik raged.

"I don't see how it's any of your business," he said.

"He's my friend, but more importantly, and as much as I hate to admit it, it's your business." Erik glared, jaw clenching, but he could find nothing to say to that. "Do you know what happens to someone who drinks as much and as often as he does?" Hank asked. He didn't bother waiting for Erik to reply. "Slowly his organs will begin shutting down--cirrhosis will probably hit first, maybe pancreatitis. It'll probably kill him; a slow, painful, lingering death, well before his time. Is that what you want for him?"

Erik found he couldn't answer. His entire body trembled with fury; though it was hard to tell who that fury was directed at. Hank took his silence as permission to keep talking. Erik wished he had Charles' power to freeze people at will--he wished he had the willpower to rise from his chair and end the conversation.

"I was sixteen when I met Charles. He was twenty-three and already a professor. A remarkable man--I was lucky he agreed to take me under his wing. I'm not sure I'd be alive today if he hadn't. A few years later I was doing my graduate work under his tutelage. I was dating this brilliant girl, I think you might know her; Angel Salvatore?"

Erik recoiled in shock. Tempest was not someone he would have imagined Beast knowing. She had left Genosha years ago.

"Charles was dating this pretty little bird named Moria, cheating on her more often than not. He was drinking then, and he's drinking now, and he's going to drink himself to an early grave. You'll forgive me for not wanting that for him."

There were so many things Erik could have said to that--so many things he wanted to say--but at that moment a loud cheer rose up from the other room, Erik turning his head in time to see Mystique giving Destiny a high-five. Charles looked resigned, but he mustered a smile and offered Mystique his hand, extending congratulations like the gentleman Erik knew him to be. They re-entered the dining hall, led by the victorious Mystique.

As soon as Charles caught his eye, he knew something was wrong. His hand came up to his temple, but Erik shook his head and Charles lowered his hand, looking more hurt than Erik could bear to see. He stood from his place at the table and crossed to Charles' side.

"I told you she was going to kick your ass," he said, letting a hand fall on Charles' shoulder. He squeezed briefly.

 _What happened_? Charles said into his mind.

"Not now," Erik answered. He turned to Mystique, ignoring the frown that had settled over Charles' face. "Congratulations, I hope you weren't too hard on him."

"Seriously? You're mad because I beat your boyfriend at pool?" Mystique stood with hands on hips and Erik could tell she was seconds away from chewing him out, so he held up his hands in a gesture of surrender, and then turned his attention to the room at large.

"Thank you, everyone, for coming. I believe we should be ready to do a live test of Cerebro tomorrow afternoon," he glanced at Hank, receiving a nod, "so I'd suggest we all get a little sleep."

Mystique seemed disappointed, but Destiny actually groaned--though she did immediately begin making a circuit of the room, exchanging pleasant goodbyes with each of its occupants. "Your babies are going to look like kittens," she told Linda, to which Erik could only shake his head. He turned his attention back to Charles.

"Shall we?"

In lieu of answering, Charles began making his own circuit of the room. He shook Mystique's hand and promised a rematch. He held up a hand at whatever Destiny might have said, begging her silence. He smiled sweetly at Linda, took her hand and pressed a chaste kiss to her knuckles. He gave Hank an appraising look, but settled on clasping the man's hand and thanking him for agreeing to come.

"I suppose I can tolerate him," Hank said, gesturing to Erik. Charles beamed.

"Thank you, Hank," he said. Erik exchange a brief glance with Hank over the top of Charles' head, uncertain exactly what he had done to warrant Hank's sudden approval. He suspected it might have something to do with the still empty glass, abandoned atop the liquor cabinet.


	18. Chapter 18

The journey from the dining hall to their rooms passed in silence. Erik's thoughts were a tangle of emotion--though Charles respected Erik's wishes and did not read them. He hadn't read Hank's mind either, not willing to violate Erik's trust--but, oh, how he'd wanted to. He wanted to know what had put that expression on Erik's face--that haunted, uncertain, utterly confused expression that had physically hurt to see.

Erik's expression was blank now, his face a carefully sculpted mask of determination. He seemed disinclined to conversation, though Charles hoped that would change now that they had reached their rooms.

Erik waved the door open, gesturing for Charles to enter first. He followed a pace behind, the door locking behind them with a soft click. Charles hesitated, and then turned to face the other man. Erik stood awkwardly in the doorway. His helmet was still tucked beneath his arm--and it had surprised Charles that he had chosen not to wear it on the walk back. He glanced at it briefly, and then set it atop the bureau. There was something in the slouch of his shoulders that suggested he needed a moment.

"I'm just going to..." Charles gestured to the bathroom. Erik glanced up, seeming startled to find he still stood inside the doorway. He nodded, and Charles could feel the weight of his gaze, heavy as Charles turned his chair and headed into the bathroom.

When he emerged, Erik was sitting on Charles' side of the bed, feet planted firmly on the floor. He had stripped down to boxers and undershirt. He was staring at his feet, bare toes flexing into the carpet.

"What did Hank say to you?" Charles asked, because there was no sense procrastinating.

Erik glanced up sharply, hesitance and regret written across his features. There was something else, too, some inner turmoil that Erik struggled against. Charles swallowed, half afraid Erik would decide to wave the conversation aside. His surface thoughts suggested he wanted to. When he finally did speak, the sound of it was startling.

"He asked me how many men I've killed."

There was no inflection in Erik's voice, only numb detachment. His thoughts raced with conflicting emotion: There was pride, deep-seated and overpoweringly strong; there was self-righteousness, Erik sure in the knowledge that his past actions were warranted; and there was self-loathing, so strong that Charles' mind reeled, even as his heart clenched in his chest, making it hard to breathe.

"Oh, Erik; I'm so sorry," he said, but Erik waved him off.

"Do you know? Have you been in my head? Do you have any idea...?"

And this was the source of Erik's self-loathing, Charles knew, because he sounded terrified, truly terrified by the prospect that Charles might know the worst of him. With anyone else he wouldn't have cared--would have worn his past deeds as a badge of honour--but with Charles he wanted to be something more. The force of the thought took Charles' breath away.

Charles rolled forward until they were sitting face to face.

Erik still wasn't looking at him--staring at the space between his legs, complexion having gone ashen--so Charles placed his hands atop Erik's knees.

"I have an idea, but I don't know the specifics. You guard your memories like prisons guard prisoners. I've respected your boundaries and not gone digging. If there's something you want me to know in particular, you can tell me, but you don't have to."

Charles slid his hands up and squeezed Erik's thighs.

"The measure of a man's character is not in what he's done, or had done to him, but what he does in the here and now. Please believe me, Erik, there is nothing in your past which offends me. I love you too, you know."

He hadn't meant to actually say those words--not yet; not until he'd verify that Erik had actually meant them when he'd said them--but they were out, and Erik's head had shot up sharply upon hearing them.

He looked astounded--like Charles was something miraculous and he couldn't fathom where he had come from.

"I'm not a perfect man either," Charles continued, because he suspected Erik had been struck speechless. "I have skeletons in my closet, too, you know."

"Not like mine," Erik said, but there was something that looked suspiciously like hope shining in his eyes.

There was something else too, some conversation they weren't having--something Erik was doing a very good job of supressing. Charles wanted to go looking, but Erik was still staring at him like he was afraid Charles might disappear at any moment, so he patted Erik's knees and decided not to press.

Instead he cleared his throat.

"So... what you said earlier..." He felt himself flush, unable to finish the question--which was stupid, because he was a middle-aged man and this was hardly his first relationship. Erik took pity on him, smile lighting up his features. His hands slid forward to rest on top of Charles', thumbs rubbing the back of Charles' wrists.

"I do," he said, clearing his throat, "love you, that is," he finished, shaking his head as if to excuse his nervousness. Charles smiled brightly.

"Then I think we're good," he said.

The look Erik shot him was filled with such gratitude--such affection--that it stole Charles' breath a second time, though for entirely different reasons. It was all he could do to extract his hands, fingers shaking as he slipped off his jacket and fumbled with the buttons on his shirt. Erik watched him with hooded eyes, though in place of arousal, Charles recognized the dull glaze of exhaustion.

At Charles' nod, Erik climbed fully onto the bed and slid over to his side, turning down the covers to make room for Charles. Charles transferred quickly from his chair, removing his pants once he was lying horizontal. He turned on his side to face Erik.

As soon as he did, Erik was in his space, drawing Charles into his arms. He pressed their foreheads together.

"You can go looking someday; I'll let you. But not tonight, okay?" he said.

"Not tonight," Charles agreed, because there were probably some things he needed to share with Erik, too--things he would have rather not had to share with anyone, but if they were going to bare their souls to one another, then Charles wasn't allowed to hide simply because he thought his ugly.

He'd expected his agreement to lessen Erik's worry--his uncertainty--but the emotions lingered, so Charles drew back and asked, "Was there anything else?"

Erik shook his head. "Not tonight." Charles nodded once, allowing Erik his secrets.

It seemed to be what Erik needed, because he relaxed instantly, his hold on Charles growing tighter. He bent his head and fit it into the space between Charles' neck and shoulder. Damp breath painted Charles' skin with gooseflesh.

Charles closed his eyes and thought about Hank's question, and the answers Erik might have given; he wondered what it was that had so thoroughly changed Hank's mind. He thought of his own skeletons and wondered if there was anyone on the planet not forever scarred by their histories. He thought of Hank and his insecurities. He thought of Mystique and her rage. He thought of Emma and the ice-forged walls she had built around her mind.

And then he tried not to think of anything, clinging to Erik as Erik clung to him before finally succumbing to the siren lure of sleep.

In the morning, everything seemed easier. It wasn't just the warm glow of sunlight filtering in through the windows, but something in his chest that seemed lighter--this despite the crushing weight pinning him to the bed. In his sleep, Erik had flung both an arm and a leg over Charles, effectively trapping him in the same position he had fallen asleep in. Charles momentarily thought to panic--he had learned early on that if he didn't stick to his turning schedule, it was only a matter of time before he was left dealing with skin sores--but he found himself too relaxed to exert the effort.

There was no extracting himself from Erik's grip without Erik's cooperation, so Charles brushed his index finger down the length of Erik's cheek. Erik nuzzled into him.

"Erik, love, you need to let me go; I have to move."

Erik grunted. Charles applied slight pressure to his chest, Erik instinctively rolling away from it, giving Charles enough room to reach down and shift his legs. He rolled onto his back, making a mental note to have Ms. Carter check his side.

As soon as Charles was settled, Erik was back, wrapping himself around Charles' torso. This time he set his head on Charles' shoulder, nosing Charles' t-shirt out of the way to press a kiss against his skin.

"Good morning," he said, still sounding half asleep. Charles chuckled.

"Good morning."

Erik tightened his grip. "We should spend the day in bed, forget about everything else." Erik's voice was a low grumble that vibrated against Charles' shoulder. The sound went straight to his core. Charles hummed before remembering all the reasons spending the day in bed was impossible.

"We can't. Ms. Carter's due this morning to do my physio, and then I have a lunch date, and then Cerebro's going live. Not exactly a day for lounging."

Sometime during Charles' answer, Erik had sat bolt-upright, suddenly very much awake. He was staring at Charles with sharp accusation, expression wounded. Charles frowned in confusion.

"A lunch date?" Erik asked, voice thick with jealousy. Charles arched an eyebrow in disbelief.

"Relax, Erik; a platonic, entirely friendly lunch date." He reached up to run his hand through Erik's hair, delighting in leaving it a spiked mess.

Erik would not be placated. "Who are you having lunch with?" he asked.

Charles hesitated, not entirely sure why he felt he couldn't tell Erik--certainly there was no reason for him not to. "Emma Frost," he eventually said, watching Erik's eyes grow wide, his jaw clenching in a way that looked almost painful.

"Emma Frost," he said, devoid of emotion. Charles blinked and then pushed himself up so that he was resting on his elbows.

"Erik..."

"Exactly why are you having lunch with Emma Frost?"

Erik's thoughts were like warning bells--he was angry, desperately so, but on top of that suspicion crept in around the edges, tainting his objectivity in ways that Charles suspected would be impossible to overcome.

"Erik," Charles said--patiently, so very patiently. "I'm having lunch with Emma because she asked, and because it's not often I get the chance to speak with another telepath--in fact, I imagine that is the very reason she asked. I know you don't particularly trust her, but that's only because you've never given her a chance."

In response, Erik snorted, so Charles pressed on.

"You know, if you actually got to know her, you might find you liked her. You're very similar."

"That's not helping," Erik said, and Charles could see instantly why that had been a mistake.

He wasn't entirely certain why he was even having this conversation. Erik may not have trusted Emma--and it was ironic that Emma felt the same way towards him, neither with a good reason--but he trusted Charles, didn't he?

"Is this really going to be a problem?" Charles asked, because if it was--and if Erik asked him to--he would cancel.

Erik seemed to deflate at that. He ran a shaking hand through his hair--smoothing away all of Charles' hard work--then let his head dip towards his chest. When he glanced back up, meeting Charles' gaze, he seemed measurably calmer.

"I can't say I'm fond of the idea, no, but it's not my place to tell you who you should and shouldn't have lunch with."

It was almost comical to hear Erik say those words, while his mind railed against them, screaming that it was his place, that Emma Frost was decidedly off the list of people with whom Charles could have lunch. But Charles still wasn't reading Erik's mind, so he accepted Erik's words and offered his thanks. Erik smiled, but Charles knew he was less than impressed.

~*~

Erik stalked into the hall outside his office, scowling at anyone who thought to glance in his direction. Whole conversations died as he passed by, tense silence heralding his coming.

Right now Charles was in the middle of his physio session--and it still bothered Erik, the thought of someone else touching Charles so intimately, even if he knew Charles was his and Linda's intentions lay elsewhere.

Unbidden Hank's words came back to him.

Had Charles really cheated on the woman he'd ended up marrying? Hank had made it sound like an everyday thing, like it was something Charles simply did--like he apparently drank too much, and Erik still wasn't sure why he'd gone out of his way to avoid that conversation. He thought perhaps it was simply that he wasn't sure he believed Hank--after all, he'd only ever seen Charles overdo it a handful of times; surely that wasn't a sign of a problem. Hank was just being paranoid, wasn't he?

Erik snorted, earning a side-long glance from a passing Gambit. Still, it was funny, because Erik wasn't so far gone that he didn't realize he was the pot calling the kettle black. Charles had told him he had skeletons--he'd probably been young and arrogant and so full of himself that he couldn't help hopping from bed to bed. He was older now, more mature, ready to settle down in a way he hadn't been, and just because he was having lunch with Emma didn't mean he was going to jump into bed with her.

"Emma," Erik said when he finally arrived at the woman in question's office. She glanced up sharply from her desk, frowning at her door--which now hovered off its hinges. Erik flicked his wrist, the door skating across the room to land with a thud against the far wall.

Emma watched its journey, shook her head, and then glanced up to meet Erik's eye.

"Are we redecorating?" she asked.

Erik scowled. "You're cancelling your lunch with Charles."

Emma lifted a single, perfectly sculpted eyebrow. God, she was beautiful--even Erik could see that--she'd ensnare Charles in a matter of seconds. He could almost see it now, Emma climbing into Charles' lap, Charles catching a hint of her perfume, eyes glazing over in lust.

Erik saw red. A moment passed before he realized Emma was pressed against the wall by her belt buckle. She immediately shifted into diamond form, rendering Erik's power inert. She stepped away from the wall, widening her stance, taking a defensive position. Erik wanted to watch her shatter like glass.

Instead he stood down, a voice--not unlike Charles', minus the warm, comforting presence in his head--scolding him for his actions.

"You will cancel your lunch with Charles," Erik said again. "Besides, I'm fairly certain I gave you a job to do."

The transition from diamond to flesh left Emma's skin iridescent--and really, he was doing Charles a favour, because how was the man supposed to resist such temptation? She brought a hand--perfectly manicured nails--up to brush aside a stray lock of hair. The look she shot him was pure hatred.

"I'm meeting with a UN representative this afternoon, if you must know. I'll have an answer for you by tonight. And don't think getting someone to agree to come was easy. I had to use all my wiles."

She turned back to her desk then, sitting primly, studiously ignoring Erik. Squaring his shoulders, Erik left the room, confident his message had been received.

Except, half an hour later he was certain she was going to have lunch with Charles just to annoy him--they'd probably get married and have perfect babies with porcelain skin and adorable dimples. For a brief moment, he considered having her restrained somewhere--held until after lunch, leaving Charles to think she'd merely stood him up--but after some consideration, he realized Charles would be less than impressed if he found out.

He could always return to their rooms, fall on his knees and beg Charles not to go; except he wasn't quite that pathetic--no, really, he wasn't. It only left him with one option--their lunch would need to be chaperoned.

Erik was still scowling when he made it to Cerebro. It was remarkable how much the room had changed since yesterday. It almost looked like an exact duplicate of Charles' machine back in New York, save that the control panel looked cobbled together, wires and cables running down the back in a tangled web. They merged into a single coil that ran, like a large snake, across the floor, disappearing into one of the panelled walls.

Erik found Hank making last minute calibrations. Still used to Hank's hostility, Erik was almost surprised when Hank offered a professional nod.

"Are we still on schedule?" Erik asked.

Hank consulted the clip board in his hand. "I have one more diagnostic test to run," he said. "We'll be ready to go this afternoon."

"Good." Erik stood there. He should have left; he had other things that needed attending to, and he hardly needed to stand watch over Cerebro--not now that it was practically finished.

Hank shot him a questioning look. It was obvious, even with their apparent truce, that Erik was not--and probably never would be--Hank's favourite person.

"Is there something else?" he asked. Erik kicked himself for being all kinds of an idiot.

"What you said yesterday..." he began.

"You spoke to Charles?" Hank asked, his work suddenly forgotten as he leaned forward intently. It was hard to read Hank's facial expressions, but Erik thought he looked hopeful. His face fell when Erik shook his head.

"You know what, never mind," Erik said, turning on his heel and leaving the room. He was vaguely aware of Hank sputtering behind him.

Erik sought out Cyclops next--Charles had seemed particularly excited by whatever it was he was working on. By the time he was up to speed--and unlike Charles, he couldn't see how building a prototype of Stryker's infernal collars was going to help--it was fast approaching lunch. Erik made his way back to Emma's office.

It was not an easy thing, trying to avoid notice, given who he was. Following Emma was an impossible challenge--she would have sensed the dead space his helmet created--so he waited until he saw her slip out of her office--looking entirely too seductive in pearl-drop white, cleavage on prominent display--to sneak inside. Well, he didn't so much sneak as he simply walked through the open doorway that was still without a door. Getting past her desk lock required a simple flick of his finger, her planner exactly where she always left it. He flipped it open to today's date.

Its entry read: _Lunch with Charles. Fuck you, Erik_. Erik seethed, then stormed from the room,

He knew Emma fairly well--or rather, knew her tastes--so there were really only a handful of restaurants in the area she might have suggested for lunch. Unless Charles suggested a restaurant, but as far as Erik knew the only restaurant Charles knew of was the one Erik had already taken him to. As luck would have it, that same restaurant probably would have topped Emma's list.

It was a remarkable thing to see--a terrifying thing to see--Magneto storming through the halls of the capitol compound, cape billowing behind him, murder written clearly on his face. Mutants physically dove to get out of his way, Erik out of the compound and across the street in record time, and without a single interruption.

He spotted them instantly. It was hard not to, Charles--and there was no way it was Emma--having chosen a window seat--Emma would have hated the thought of commoners watching her eat. Charles was smiling--and that was Erik's smile, damn it--Emma laughing at something he said--the sly minx. They had ordered wine--white, Erik saw, and soon Charles would be drunk and flirty and willing to fall into bed with anyone who happened to flash a pair of perfectly balanced breasts in his direction and maybe, just maybe, Hank had a point about the drinking.

Erik growled and then charged into the restaurant.

~*~

 _I was supposed to cancel_.

Charles glanced up from his menu--the same restaurant Erik had taken him to, save that he had waved aside the private dining room in favour of a table beside the window, overlooking the harbour. Emma slid into the seat opposite.

"Why would you cancel?" Charles asked, amused.

His amusement vanished as Emma shared her earlier encounter with Erik.

"I'm so sorry, Emma. Believe me; I will have strong words with him." And he would--he would tear a strip from Erik's hide until Erik begged his forgiveness. There were a good many things he could overlook, but this--terrifying and threatening one of his own, simply because he couldn't control his jealousy--this was intolerable.

 _I don't see what you see in him_ , Emma said into his mind. _He's not entirely sane, you know. Actually, scrap that; the man is bat-shit crazy_.

Charles shook his head. There was nothing he could say to excuse what Erik had done--and he didn't want to--but he still cared for Erik--loved Erik--and wouldn't abandon him simply because he had made a mistake. They all made mistakes.

"I'm not sure any of us are," Charles said in response to Emma's pronouncement. "I promise you, though; he will apologize. I will see to that."

Emma looked doubtful, but she nodded.

"I am glad you came anyway," Charles said. Emma's laugh was amused.

"So am I, though I meant what I said. He is insane, and a brute. I worry about you. I know you can take care of yourself, but I wouldn't want to be in your position."

Why was it, Charles wondered, that he was the only one capable of seeing Erik's potential--capable of seeing the good in Erik. Surely Emma wouldn't be here if Erik were truly so bad. He let the thought float in her direction.

"No, you're right. He's not that bad. In fact, he's the first person I've met who actually treats me like an equal--a threat sometimes, but an equal. I like that. I like that he doesn't stare at my tits, or keep me around solely for his own pleasure." There was more to that story that she wasn't saying, but Charles knew, even without looking, that her own history was filled with men who had done exactly that. His heart ached for her.

 _In fact, until you came around, I'd never seen him look at anyone that way_. Her smile was sly and mischievous.

Charles laughed, feeling his face flush. "Yes, well..."

"He's better, now that you're here. Before I kept wondering when he was going to finally snap and kill us all, but now he seems almost... human. Oh, he'd hate it if he heard me say that."

Charles couldn't help but disagree. He suspected a lot of Erik's hatred of humanity stemmed from what he perceived was his own human weakness. Charles hoped he was discovering what it meant to have human strength.

"It's a shame, you know," Charles said. "I think the two of you have a lot in common. I think you could almost be friends, if you were willing to take a chance and risk trusting one another. I think you both need more friends." Charles said this last bit with an air of certainty, Emma acknowledging the point with a slight incline of her head. It was a subtle suggestion, on both their parts, to leave Erik off as a topic of conversation.

So Charles sunk into Emma's head and offered an exchange of tricks. Emma was particularly impressed by Charles' ability to control people, whereas Charles had never before considered spinning illusions--even if he disagreed with most of the illusions Emma had spun.

It was nice, having this conversation--most of it confined within their heads. Speaking with Emma was like having a conversation with a sister--something he'd always wanted. It was how he'd often imagined he and Cain might have gotten on, before he'd realized that Cain was beyond his help.

But that was not a thought Charles wanted to get caught up in, so instead he turned to regaling Emma with stories from when his telepathy first manifested. She was particularly amused by the story of the Head Master he'd forced to act out scenes from Hamlet in the front of the dining hall, simply because he'd accused Charles of being incapable of mastering the classics. If Emma's thoughts were accurate, then she hadn't laughed as hard as she was now in years.

Which was exactly when their lunch was interrupted.

Erik's sudden arrival at their table was as surprising as it was alarming. Charles smiled to see him, until he caught sight of the expression on Erik's face. Then his stomach fell, even as indignation rose up like bile in the back of his throat.

Erik slid into an empty chair on Charles' right, face a mask of fury; his helmet perched on his head like an armet. He stared at Emma like he could burn her to cinder with only the power of his anger. Charles immediately reached a hand across the table and closed it around Erik's wrist.

"Don't you dare. Don't you dare," he said. Erik's head swung in his direction. "You owe this woman a thousand apologies, Erik. What you did is unspeakable, and I will not tolerate it. If you can't trust me then tell me now and I will leave; I will go back to Westchester and we will forget this ever happened. But do not presume to dictate my life; do not presume to tell me who I can or cannot see, and never, ever threaten or hurt anyone I choose to keep company with again. Do you understand me?"

In the course of Charles' lecture, Erik's anger had faded. He looked chastised now, as uncertain as he had last night. Charles squeezed his wrist once--part reassurance, part warning.

It was an extraordinary thing, watching Erik fully deflate. It was as if he had only just now realized how deplorable his behavior was. He stared at Charles, wide-eyed, and swallowed heavily

"I..."

"No, Erik. It's not me you should be apologizing to right now."

Erik's jaw clenched, but he mastered himself a moment later, resignation sweeping across his features. He turned to meet Emma's eye. She looked leery, but oddly defiant; the master of her own domain. Charles felt oddly proud.

"I apologize for my earlier behavior." Erik said.

Emma adjusted her pristine white shawl--it had fallen over her shoulders while they'd eaten. She lifted her head and glared down the length of her nose.

"You're an utter fool," she said. "You've actually got something worth having, and you're going to lose it because you can't stop behaving like a child."

Charles bit his lip to keep from reprimanding her--it was a terrible thing to say, and to Erik of all people, but she was rather entitled at the moment. His grip on Erik's wrist tightened.

"I've been inside his head you know, and the man is so gaga over you a parade of attractive men and women could lay themselves prostrate at his feet and he wouldn't even notice. Don't scare him away by being... well, you."

Erik seemed affronted by that, but before he had a chance to argue, Charles removed his hand from Erik's wrist and slid it into Erik's hand. He squeeze, earning Erik's attention.

"She's right; I am rather gaga," he said with a smile--and a blush that he was certain coloured even his ears. "Now take that ridiculous thing off so that the two of you can set this right." He gestured to Erik's helmet.

Erik stared at him like he'd grown two heads, but Charles maintained a level gaze, unwilling to relent. He half expected Erik to refuse; half expected Erik to stand from the table and storm from the restaurant. Charles let his expression turn beseeching. Erik cursed and then, in one quick motion, reached up and removed his helmet. He turned to Emma defiantly.

It was a mark, Charles thought, of how much Erik trusted him that he would take only Charles' word that he could trust a woman he had for years labelled as untrustworthy.

Emma narrowed her gaze--and Charles could hear her diving into his thoughts. _Gently, please_ , he told her. Her expression softened, then grew shocked, eyes widening. She pulled back into her own mind.

"You really are an idiot," she said before turning to Charles. "But I take back what I said. He's still insane, but I can see what you see in him." Charles beamed at her.

 _He is kind of wonderful, isn't he_? Emma merely laughed. Erik pulsed with annoyance and confusion, hating being left out of a conversation. Charles floated the same thought in his direction, watching Erik flush with pleasure.

Emma's laughter carried throughout the restaurant.

The rest of lunch was an awkward affair--because Erik refused to leave, and refused to replace his helmet, even though it was clear he wanted to, and because Emma sat, smug and amused by Erik's submission, and because they hadn't ordered nearly enough wine for Charles to deal with the pair of them.

After, Emma excused herself, saying she had an appointment.

"We should do this again, Charles," she said, leaning down to press a kiss to Charles' cheek. Charles glared at her, knowing she had done it only to infuriate Erik.

 _You could at least try to be nice_ , he told her.

Emma laughed, bright and amused like Charles had just told the best joke in the world. Erik's thoughts raged. Charles shook his head, reached out a hand and slid it into Erik's.

"Thank you for lunch, Emma," he said. She inclined her head, turned on her heel, and left the restaurant. Charles turned to Erik, who was now standing behind his chair, looking uncertain.

"I really messed that up, didn't I?" he said. Charles squeezed his hand.

"Oh, yes, rather badly, I might add," Charles replied, but he was smiling. The shape of Emma's thoughts after Erik had removed his helmet had told him all he needed to know. Charles didn't say it, but if anything it was him who should be worried, not Erik. Fortunately for him, Emma was a woman of honour; she would never filch what wasn't hers.

"I'm sorry. I'm not good at sharing," Erik said, and Charles was acutely aware of just how different their lives had been up until this point.

Charles had never been forced to share--had had everything handed to him on a silver platter. Granted he would have given anything--shared his every possession--for something as simple as companionship or love or affection. Erik, on the other hand, had grown up without possessions, wearing hand-me-downs and not always having enough to eat--and that was before the camps. In the camps Erik had had nothing that belonged to him, not even himself. It was no wonder Erik was bad at sharing, especially now that he had something to share.

"It's not something you have to worry about, you know," Charles said. "I've never had this before. I rather think it's one of those once in a lifetime sort of things. Trust me when I say, I'm not going to do anything to screw it up."

Erik's expression softened at that. He smiled, a little hesitantly, but with genuine warmth.

"I told you we should have spent the day in bed," he said, and then, "Come on, Hank will be waiting for us." Charles could hear what he wasn't saying.

 _I love you, too_ , Charles floated in his direction. Erik's smile grew impossibly fond as he led them from the restaurant, Cerebro awaiting its first official test run.


	19. Chapter 19

Charles was a saint. There was really no other explanation. Erik could think of no other reason why he would be sitting patiently--calmly, serenely even--in the middle of their bathroom, allowing Linda to shave his head.

Come to think it of it, Erik could think of no other reason Charles would tolerate his person, or put up with the things Erik did on a semi-regular basis--like crashing Charles' lunch dates or getting into arguments with Charles' best friend.

"I'm so sorry," Hank was saying, flipping through the reams of blueprints he had brought with him to Charles and Erik's rooms. "I honestly don't know why it's not working. Your hair wasn't a problem before."

Charles laughed. "Please, you've been trying to convince me to shave my head for years." He sounded amused--completely at ease with the situation--but Erik didn't miss the slightly alarmed look he cast in Erik's direction.

 _Promise me you won't hate it_ , he said into Erik's mind.

Erik pushed himself off the counter and crossed to Charles' side. When he got there, Linda hesitated in her cutting, lowering the clippers at Erik's gesture. Charles wasn't bald yet, but his hair was shorn--buzzed down to the quick in a style reminiscent of the many soldiers Erik had killed. Strangely enough, the style on Charles just made him look impossibly young. Erik ran a hand over the stubble, marvelling at its softness.

"I want to do the rest," he said, only then remembering that they weren't alone. Charles coloured--prettily, Erik thought. The tips of his ears were visible now and stained a lovely scarlet colour. His eyes were more visible, too; bright orbs of blue that seemed to take over his entire face.

Dimly, Erik registered that he was still petting Charles' head.

"Okay, maybe we should just..." Hank was saying. He very purposely didn't look at either Charles or Erik as he moved to Linda's side, retrieving the clippers from her hands and placing them on the counter, then gently steering her from the room by her elbow. The door fell shut behind them.

"You know they both think we're absolute freaks now. Well, Hank does; Linda was a little intrigued by it. Do you really want to shave my head?"

Erik continued to run his fingers over Charles' head, tracing the shape of his skull. He had a nice skull, Erik thought; well-shaped and lacking any significant anomalies. He'd probably look fantastic bald. Erik tried to picture it; tried to imagine what it would be like guiding a razor over Charles' head with his powers. He shivered.

"Yes, I think I really, really do."

Charles' eyebrows lifted at that, but he nodded, acceding Erik's wishes.

And oh, God, he had never done something like this before. He had no idea where to start. It couldn't be any harder than shaving--they couldn't use the clippers, too impersonal, not nearly a close enough shave. No, he would need shaving foam and a straight razor. Erik had those things; used them every morning.

Reluctantly, he removed his hand from Charles' head and crossed back to the counter. He retrieved a washcloth, wet it thoroughly and handed it to Charles.

"Get your head wet," he said, retrieving foam and his razor next.

He tested the edge of the blade on a finger and found it wanting. A tiny tendril of his power solved that problem, the blade impossibly sharp when he was done. He tested it again, the blade coming away bloody.

It was amazing, he thought, turning back to Charles, the trust this man extended him. Erik hadn't thought it possible to so thoroughly trust another, but here Charles was, sitting meekly, with his head bent forward, neck exposed, trusting Erik--trusting Magneto--with a razor-sharp blade. And this after everything that had happened between them--after all the times Erik had come precariously close to destroying everything they had with no more than a misplaced word or an idiotic gesture. How he had ever thought not to extend that same trust to Charles, who was clearly deserving; far more deserving than Erik would ever be.

Erik sprayed some foam into the palm of his hand and used two fingers to work it into a thick lather. He then transferred it to Charles' head, taking care to work it deep into Charles' skin. He covered the back half of Charles' head first, trails of foamy white leading all the way down his neck.

"Are you ready?" he asked when he was done.

"Ready," Charles said--not a hint of waver in his tone. Erik's heart fluttered nervously.

He gestured with his hand and brought the blade from its place on the counter, letting it hover over Charles' head until Erik was certain the angle was right. Then he sent it down, one clean stroke that cleaned a line from just below the crown of Charles' head to the first knot of his spine. Charles shivered, but otherwise remained motionless.

Erik cleaned the blade, and then did it again, this time moving right; one line after another until he reached Charles' ear. He returned to his starting point and moved in the other direction. When he had finished, he re-wet Charles' washcloth and cleaned off the residual foam. Now Charles had a square-patched bald spot that sat between his ears and reached almost to the top of his head.

Erik moved around to Charles' front and dragged two fingers across Charles' cheek, slipping them down beneath Charles' chin to tilt his head. Charles blinked up at him, pupils blown wide. Erik bit his lip at the sight. He only then realized his cock was throbbing painfully within the confines of his trousers.

He ignored it, wetting the top of Charles' head this time and starting the process anew.

Despite the blade slipping in and out of Charles' line of view, Charles never took his eyes from Erik's face. He watched with eyes open, completely trusting--so much so that Erik had to struggle to keep his attention on what he was doing. He finished the top of Charles' head and then moved to the sides. When he had finished, not a single nick marred Charles' perfect skin. Erik wet a new washcloth this time and used it to clean Charles' head entirely. He slid his fingers against wet skin, seeking places he might have missed. He found none, so he stepped back to admire his handiwork.

And Charles bald--oh, Charles bald--was a sight to behold. It seemed impossible that Charles would look both helplessly innocent and fiercely strong, and yet, Charles did. He sat perfectly still, back straight, head held high, meeting Erik's gaze--pupils still blown with lust. Charles bald was kingly and otherworldly at the same time. Charles bald was in want of protection and yet capable of tearing apart the entire world. The dichotomy of it made Erik's knees weak. He reached a hand to Charles' head, running his fingertips across the drying skin, tracing them down the line of Charles' jaw, then across to Charles' lips, thumb pressing inside.

 _I'd ask if it looked all right, but I think I already know the answer_ , Charles said into his mind, even as he pulled Erik's thumb--the one he'd cut on the blade earlier, the cut not yet clotted--into his mouth and sucked.

Erik couldn't help the stifled groan that escaped his lips. He let out another when Charles took the pad of his thumb between his teeth and pressed firmly. Had he been paying attention, he might have heard the scurry of feet moving away from the bathroom door, followed by the outside door falling shut.

Charles released his thumb and licked at too red lips. Erik watched, transfixed.

He had no idea where this was heading until Charles glanced--somewhat shyly--at Erik's crotch. It occurred to Erik then that Charles in his chair was probably the perfect height for this. His cock twitched at the thought, Erik bringing the heel of his hand to press against it. Charles' eyes fell shut. Had Erik ever noticed the length of his eyelashes before? They seemed impossibly long.

When Charles opened his eyes--eyelashes sweeping up, impossible not to notice now--they were all pupil, his face flushed and his lips damp. When he swallowed, Erik saw it in his temples. He slid his hands back along Charles' head just as Charles reached trembling hands towards Erik's belt buckle.

For one brief, hysterical moment, Erik stared in disbelief, not truly believing that Charles was going to do this--here of all places, and now of all times--but then Charles deftly released the clasp and slid the belt apart. A flick of his thumb released Erik's button. He glanced up and caught Erik's eye before slowly lowering Erik's zipper. Erik remained frozen, feeling Charles' mind intertwine with his own.

Erik licked his lips and stared into Charles' eyes, hissing slightly when Charles finally pulled his cock free, the air in the bathroom cooler than he'd expected. Charles' fingers, where they rested like brands, were warm--impossibly warm.

"Are you really going to...?" Erik asked at the same time that Charles leaned forward, briefly taking control of Erik's body to bring him forward so that they met somewhere in the middle.

The second Erik had control again, his fingers tightened on Charles' head--and the lack of hair meant he had nothing to hold on to, fingers scrabbling uselessly until he settled on merely holding Charles by the back of the head. Charles smiled, licked his lips, and then brought his tongue to the tip of Erik's cock.

His eyes fell shut again as he pressed his tongue--large and wet--into the slit of Erik's penis. Erik bucked forward, momentarily stilling until a thought from Charles told him he needn't. Charles tipped his head, his tongue sliding along Erik's underside. He laved the space where Erik's circumcision scar sat in a knotted ring, and then used his tongue to coax Erik's cock fully into his mouth, lips stretching wide to accommodate Erik's width.

Charles moaned. Erik gave an experimental thrust.

 _Come on, Erik, you can do better than that_ , Charles said into his mind, and if Charles was still that coherent, then yes, yes he could.

He brought a hand away from Charles' head, keeping him positioned with the one still resting on the back of his skull, and brought his fingers to Charles' mouth. He traced the place where Charles' lips stretched around his cock. His fingers came away damp with saliva. He pulled back, keeping his fingers pressed to the thin sliver of space between Charles' mouth and his dick. He thrust back in.

Charles' hand, which had been holding the base of Erik's cock, came down to cradle his balls, thumb rubbing into the space between them, even as his middle finger reached back, pressing into Erik's perineum. Erik circled his hips, grinding further into the heat of Charles' mouth. Charles' cheeks hollowed as he sucked, the sound of his slurping obscenely loud in the small room. Erik moaned, and then pulled back.

Only to thrust forward again, quicker this time, setting a steady pace of in and out, in and out, Charles keeping up like he was born to do exactly this. He felt Charles' amusement at the thought. _Smug bastard_ , he directed at Charles, and then thrust a little harder just to teach him a lesson. Charles' hand scrambled to his lap and he fumbled hurriedly with his pants.

His cock, when he pulled it free, wasn't entirely hard, but its tip was wet with precome. Charles retrieved one of the discarded washcloths from the counter--a feat that almost sent them tumbling onto their sides until Erik realized what it was he wanted and shifted to accommodate. He placed it between his cock and his clothes. He let his hand curl loosely around his dick before the full of his attention came back to Erik.

Who had been steadily fucking Charles' mouth, overcome by heat and the velvety smooth texture of Charles' wicked, wicked tongue. Charles sudden presence in his head--the sudden awareness of his arousal--was almost enough to send Erik over the edge. If it had been their first time, he probably would have fallen, but since it wasn't, he merely stuttered a little, losing his rhythm until Charles nudged him with his mind, Erik growling somewhat fiercely at the instruction.

He had both hands back behind Charles' head now, and had set up a steady rhythm; Charles sucking, rolling his balls, tongue snaking patterns along the underside of Erik's cock as Erik slid in and out, eyes fixed on the sight of his cock pushing past Charles' lips.

He could feel his orgasm building long before he was ready--oh, how he wanted this to last forever. It was by far the most leisurely sex they'd had--which made no sense at all, save to his lust-addled brain, so Erik simply went with it. He pulled almost all the way out and then thrust back in, doing it again a second time at the same time that Charles reached back, fingertips brushing against Erik's hole. Erik stilled a little at the sensation, but a calming wave from Charles told him he would go no further, so Erik sank back into Charles' mouth even as Charles brushed against the tight ring of muscles around his anus.

It felt less strange--less invasive--the second time Charles did it, so that by the time Charles had worked up to rubbing steady circles without ever penetrating, Erik was panting and shaking, balls drawing tight, his thrusts completely erratic as he struggled towards his completion.

He pulled back until Charles' mouth was stretched just around the head of his cock, and then thrust back in, just as Charles applied the slightest bit of pressure to his hole, the sensation enough to send him over the edge, Erik coming into Charles' mouth, unable to stop himself--unwilling, if he was honest. His entire body tensed as his back arched, cock straining forward, filling Charles' mouth until Erik half expected Charles to choke. He didn't, swallowing Erik's semen gracefully, despite some of it dribbling out of the side of his mouth and then spilling over his chin. Erik's body gave a final twitch at the sight, cock pulsing out a few final drops before he weakly pulled away, Charles letting his mouth go slack so that Erik fell out with a wet pop.

When he glanced down into Charles' lap, there was a small pool of semen staining the washcloth. Charles licked his lips.

"Fuck," Erik said, because there really wasn't anything else to say--and if there was, he certainly wasn't coherent enough to say it.

He stumbled back until he caught himself on the counter, watching, dazed, as Charles brought a hand to his chin to catch the stray tendril of Erik's come. He wiped it away with his thumb and then brought it to his mouth, moist tongue licking his thumb clean.

"Are you trying to kill me?" Erik asked. Charles glanced up and chuckled.

"Hardly that," he said, even as he began the steady process of cleaning himself off and tucking himself away. He seemed slightly unfocused. Erik didn't blame him. If he had shared even half of that, then it was still the best blowjob of Erik's life--which, granted, wasn't saying much, considering how few blowjobs Erik had received.

It was only after Charles was cleaned and tucked away that he ran hands over his head, expression becoming a little nervous. He glanced up and met Erik's eye, who nodded briefly and then slid over on the counter, making room for Charles to look in the mirror. His eyebrows shot skyward.

"Oh," he said.

Erik realized then that his cock was still hanging out--still wet with Charles' saliva. He used a Charles' discarded washcloth to clean himself off and then tucked himself away, doing his best to smooth the wrinkles from his clothes. When he was done he turned to meet Charles' eyes in the mirror.

"It really does suit you," Erik said, only then catching sight of himself. He looked thoroughly fucked--bottom lip red from where he'd been biting it, cheeks stained pink, hairline damp with sweat. His cock was softening, but its outline was still obvious in his pants, which had creases that pulled across his crotch from where the material had bunched when Charles had tugged them open.

Charles looked just as despoiled--his colour high, his clothes wrinkled and his lips puffy and swollen. There was absolutely no way anyone could look at them and not know exactly what they'd been up to.

That and the entire bathroom reeked of sex.

Charles was still admiring his newly shaved head, turning his head to catch every angle while running his fingers steadily across his skull.

"It's not terrible, is it?" he said. Erik stepped forward and ran a hand over the top of Charles' head.

"It's really not."

"Well, then, I supposed that means we're done here," Charles said, but he hesitated. Erik, who was coming to know Charles' expressions well, immediately bowed his head.

"I'll give you a moment," he said, grabbing his helmet from where he'd set it on the counter when they'd first arrived, tucking it under his arm.

He stepped around the pile of hair that covered the bathroom floor, brushing his clothes free of any that might have transferred, and then stepped out into the main room. Hank and Linda were nowhere to be seen and it occurred to Erik then that they had been locked in the bathroom for the better part of half an hour.

He found Hank and Linda outside in the hall, sitting side by side against the wall, Hank showing Linda several of his blueprints, Linda nodding despite her obvious incomprehension. They glanced up when Erik stepped out the door.

Hank's eyes grew wide, and he immediately glanced away, cheeks flushing violet. The beginnings of a smirk tugged at Linda's mouth.

"Charles will be a minute," Erik said, very purposely avoiding either of their gazes. What he and Charles did behind closed doors was none of their business.

Five minutes of awkward silence passed before Charles emerged, looking slightly less rumpled. He smiled brightly at Hank and Linda, glanced once in Erik's direction, and then started them back to Cerebro.

Mystique met them outside the doors.

She arched an eyebrow at the sight of Charles' hair--or lack thereof--but Charles merely smiled, ran a hand over his head and said in his typical, self-deprecating fashion, "It'll grow back."

Mystique nodded, but she looked skeptical. She stepped aside to let Charles into the room; who went straight to Cerebro's interface and picked up the helmet from where he'd discarded it after it had failed to pick up his brain waves the first time.

"We should have a better connection now," Hank said, helping Charles fit the helmet to his head. "Although, we may need to wet your head." Erik watched as Charles flushed at that, Hank obviously confused by his reaction. Wisely, he didn't comment.

This helmet looked vastly different from its counterpart back in Westchester. All of its components were exposed, wires and circuitry clustered around its exterior like some strange alien device. It made Charles look like a lab rat.

Hank, who had moved over to the control panel now that Charles was set up, hummed contentedly, obviously liking whatever readout he was receiving.

"This isn't designed to project, so we won't be able to see what you're doing, but I think you're familiar enough with the process to let us know if anything seems off," he said to Charles, even as he gestured to Mystique who immediately moved towards the door.

Before she could seal it shut--leaving only the four of them inside; Linda having returned to her rooms--Emma Frost appeared in the doorway. Erik immediately tensed. It took effort to stamp down the suspicion and jealousy that flared upon spotting her--no matter what he had told Charles, he would probably never be entirely comfortable having her and Charles in the same room together.

To his surprise, it was him she sought out, Emma making eye contact briefly before she nodded out the door.

"Now?" Erik asked, rather loudly. It drew every eye in the room--save Charles, who was apparently lost to whatever preparations he tended to make before Cerebro initiated. Hank raised a questioning eyebrow.

"This is only a preliminary test. We won't be doing much more than ensuring it works. We don't need you," he said, but Erik had no particular interest in leaving Charles until he was certain this Cerebro was safe.

"Of course it's safe, Erik. There's nothing you can do at the moment anyway," Charles said, surprising Erik, because he hadn't thought Charles was listening.

He turned to make eye contact, pleased to note that Charles was ignoring Emma in favour of staring at him.

"Fine, but if anything feels even the slightest bit off, you are to stop, do you understand?" Charles smiled, and then turned back to face Hank, nodded briefly, and closed his eyes.

Erik didn't wait to see what would happen--Cerebro wouldn't work with the door open anyway. He crossed the walkway to follow Emma from the room, Erik using his power to close and seal Cerebro's door behind him.

"This had better be important," Erik said.

"Unfortunately, it is," Emma replied, but she didn't say anything else, leading Erik instead to his office.

She didn't speak again until they were safely inside, waiting for Erik to close and lock the door before opening her mouth. She sat on the edge of Erik's desk, crossing her legs neatly, her hands folding into her lap.

"Small problem with Charles' plan," she said. Erik, who was halfway to claiming one of the chairs that faced his desk, sank heavily down into it.

"What kind of problem?"

"First, the good news; we are entitled to petition for Stryker's arrest, and we can apply to host his trial. They aren't guarantees, but my contact seemed to think we have a strong enough case to win both. The bad news; the petitioning process usually takes six months, but things are so backlogged right now that we're probably looking at upwards of a year.

Erik felt the colour drain from his face. A year was impossible; they'd be collared and enslaved, without recourse within the year. If Stryker wasn't stopped soon, stopping him would require a war, and then only if enough humans sided with the mutants--who would be utterly useless, collared as they were, and maybe even fighting for the wrong side. No, a year was impossible.

"There is a loophole," Emma said, and Erik clung fiercely to the brief flare of hope those words brought.

"What is it?" he demanded.

"Stryker's already broken our laws, so if we can get him on Genoshian soil, then we can arrest him and detain him until the UN paperwork clears."

"Wouldn't we have grounds to simply prosecute him without UN backing then?" Erik asked. Emma shook her head.

"We could, but Charles is right; without UN backing this becomes nothing more than an exercise. Having a UN sanctioned trial is imperative if we want to make the point we're trying to make."

Erik considered. "So we kidnap Stryker, bring him here, and arrest him; simple."

Emma tutted even as she rolled her eyes. "We need to get him to come here of his own free will, otherwise his lawyers will have him walking within twenty-four hours--and anything we do to countermand it will be seen as a violation of his rights."

Erik scowled. He brought a hand to his forehead and pinched the bridge of his nose. "So basically, we're screwed," he said, because there was no way Stryker was going to set foot in Genosha--not until his collars were ready--and then he'd be making an open declaration of war and probably wouldn't care about an arrest warrant.

"What the hell do we do, then?" He knew what his answer would have been six months ago--hell, even six weeks ago. Emma obviously did too.

"We can't leave this any longer. Look, I like Charles as much as you do." Erik glanced up sharply at that. Emma backpedaled. "Sorry, not as much as you do--I certainly don't want to sleep with him if that's what you're worried about--but he's a good guy, and I know he's not on board the whole killing people who get in our way thing, but can you honestly see another option here?"

Erik's heart constricted, because Emma was right; he couldn't. And they had tried--they really had--surely Charles would see that. Surely Charles would see that there was no other option.

The problem was Erik could no longer bring himself to believe that.

"I can't," Erik said. Emma's eyebrows went skyward. "Charles needs to have input on this decision. I can't just make it for him. I can't..."

He was aware he sounded like an idiot--he certainly didn't sound like the ruthless leader of the Brotherhood he had once prided himself on being. Emma's shock was palpable. She stared at Erik in awe.

"God, he really has changed you," she said, but she sounded oddly pleased.

Certainly she was smiling, features softer than Erik had ever seen them. He frowned, not particularly sure how to deal with this Emma.

"All right; Charles it is. You want me to arrange an emergency meeting?" she asked.

Erik nodded. He could think of a dozen people who needed to be invited--and immediately if possible. He provided Emma with a list.

"I'll grab Charles and Mystique, maybe Hank, too, and we'll convene in the boardroom. Say an hour?"

Emma nodded, gracefully sliding off the desk. Erik stood, suddenly finding Emma standing entirely too close. She placed a hand on his shoulder and squeezed briefly.

"You're a lot more likeable when you're getting laid on a regular basis. Try to keep Charles around," she said. Erik couldn't help but laugh, silently agreeing with her assessment.

He moved aside to let her leave, and then reached up to ring the intercom. Rogue appeared in his doorway a moment later, just as Erik was in the process of removing his helmet--it was strange, but now that Emma seemed less a threat, Erik couldn't find a reason to continue wearing it. Besides, it had been so long since he had last felt like Magneto--and that in itself was strange, but probably Charles' doing as well--that the helmet had begun to feel oddly foreign, like it didn't belong to him at all.

"There's an emergency meeting in the boardroom in one hour. Can you arrange for something light for dinner? About ten people," Erik said. Rogue looked at him like he was crazy--though, yes, he did know how difficult a task that was--but she nodded. "And send the cleaning staff in to clean my bathroom, sooner rather than later." This time Rogue's expression grew incredulous. Erik took pity on her. "Also, I want you to attend. Consider this an official promotion. Jubilee can take over your current role."

Rogue's eyes lit up at that--she smiled brightly, shoulders straightening as she came to attention. In the year that she'd served as Erik's personal assistant, he had known her capable of more--and so had she, complaining loudly and often to anyone who would listen that her skills were being wasted. Still, everyone had to pay their dues.

Before she could say anything--he was half afraid she would begin babbling her thanks, even though it was hardly her style--Erik waved her away. He stepped out of his office a moment later, Rogue already making calls, trying to secure them an evening meal. He left her to it and returned swiftly to Cerebro.

The door was still closed, so Erik hesitated, eventually deciding on rapping his knuckles against it three times. He waited. Ten--ridiculously long--minutes passed before the door finally slid open.

Mystique poked her head out the door, then stepped back and opened the door the rest of the way, permitting Erik entry.

"Where's your hat?" she said, gesturing to his head. Erik glared.

"Never mind that; I've called an emergency meeting--in about forty minutes from now. How's it going in here?" He'd been gone no more than half an hour, but Charles had told him each test would run approximately twenty minutes. A quick glance in Charles' direction showed Charles smiling brightly, seeming well pleased by whatever Hank was saying. He glanced up, spotted Erik, and waved him over.

"Oh, Erik," he said when Erik reached his side. "It's incredible--I'd forgotten what it was like to extend my telepathy so far. Hank limited the parameters to Genosha, but even that... There are so many mutants here. So many variations and abilities; it's absolutely incredible."

Charles practically radiated contentment. His eyes shone and he gestured as he spoke, hands waving exuberantly. "I did do a sweep for Stryker as part of the test; he's not here, of course." Charles chuckled, Erik joining him a moment later; and wouldn't that have made his life so much easier?

"We're going to extend its range to include the surrounding islands and the eastern coast of Africa. If that goes well, we'll include the entire African continent, but to be honest, I don't think we need to bother--this feels exactly like my Cerebro. I suspect we could expand its range globally and begin our search immediately."

Charles was talking a mile a minute, obviously excited, which made it hard for Erik to interrupt. Eventually he lifted a hand, fitting two fingers against Charles' lips, whatever Charles was saying stuttering to a stop. He blinked at Erik in confusion. Erik found himself momentarily distracted by a vivid memory of just what those lips had been doing not an hour ago.

He shook his head. "You're doing this as slowly as Hank deems necessary, and no arguments, but first we need to take a small break. I've called an emergency meeting; there's a problem."

Charles cocked his head. "Oh," he said as Erik called his conversation with Emma to the forefront of his thoughts, letting Charles see it.

Charles frowned, brow creasing as he considered the problem. Suddenly his features lit up, smile widening across his face. "Actually, that might work quite well," he said, but in lieu of the explanation Erik was expecting, Charles merely added, "We'll need to invite Scott to the meeting."


	20. Chapter 20

"You want to do what?" Erik asked. He was staring at Charles like Charles had grown two heads--although now that Charles was bald, he was starting to get used to people staring at him like that.

Erik wasn't the only person staring at him; the entire table was staring, some with sandwiches and wraps frozen midway to their mouths. Only Scott was nodding.

"I want to telepathically manipulate Stryker into attacking Genosha before he's ready," Charles said, and really, it was a tidy solution--why no one else seemed to see it was beyond him.

"And this necessitates us feigning an attack on Stryker's base, and then allowing you to be captured and collared, so that Stryker thinks he has enough of an advantage to warrant a full out assault." There was something eerily calm in Erik's tone--something that would have made the hair on the back of Charles' neck stand up, had he any hair left that was.

"Yes," Charles said, and surely Erik could see the logic behind his plan.

"Absolutely not."

Apparently not. Charles frowned.

"Why not?"

Erik's eyes grew wider--something Charles would have thought impossible until he saw it. He shook his head. "You want me to put you at risk on the assumption that he will bump up his timetable simply because he has a powerful telepath at his disposal? Are you insane? There is no way in hell this is happening, Charles. End of discussion."

Charles glowered--because it was obvious Erik was missing the point entirely.

"There is no risk involved, Erik," he said.

Erik glared daggers. He opened his mouth to say something--likely some additional retort based entirely on his miscomprehension of Charles' plan. Charles sighed heavily and started from scratch.

"It's really quite simple. I'm not suggesting we let Stryker put an actual collar on me. I'm suggesting we let Scott build an improperly functioning prototype and put that on me. I'm suggesting we have Mystique take the guise of one of Stryker's men and act as my controller. I'm suggesting I subtly implant the idea in Stryker's head that with me he needn't await the mass production of his collars, that I am capable of levelling any mutant stronghold--and that means Genosha--without them. I am suggesting that I blur the thoughts of anyone who thinks to question this decision, and I'm suggesting that I lead Stryker here, onto Genoshian soil, where we can legally detain him."

Erik's face was still a mask of hard stone. He shook his head. "It's too risky. If they find out your collar isn't one of theirs..."

"It's an acceptable level of risk, Erik, and believe me, I will know if anyone is even thinking in that direction, and if they are, I can intervene before it becomes a problem."

"It's not an acceptable level of risk to me!" Erik's shout rang throughout the room--had the table not already been immersed in silence, it would have fallen silent at the outburst. He'd stood abruptly as he said it, chair skittering back several feet in the process.

The entire thing was ridiculous, as far as Charles was concerned, because Charles knew that Erik was only disagreeing because of who Charles was. If it were any other telepath he would have agreed instantly--in fact that had been his first question, because he would have gladly put Emma into the situation. He'd been particularly upset when both Emma and Charles had made it clear that she lacked the telepathic strength to do what Charles was proposing.

 _Erik_ , Charles said, speaking directly into his mind. He brushed tentatively against Erik's thoughts, a simple caress. _Please don't feel you have to protect me. I am more than capable of doing this. It might be our only way_.

Erik's thoughts, clearly directed at Charles, were loud and unstructured. They showed only Erik's preferred alternative; killing Stryker and destroying his work. Charles' expression fell.

"Not that. Please, Erik, not that," he said aloud.

Erik didn't answer, but he hung his head, resigned to setting aside the notion, for now. Across the table, Hank cleared his throat. Everyone glanced in his direction. He glanced first to Erik--which struck Charles as odd--and then made eye contact with Charles. His thoughts suggested he wished Linda was here.

"I think you might be forgetting something, Charles," he said, directing a thought in Charles' direction. _What if you have a panic attack?_ it said. Hank was clearly on Erik's side in this argument.

Charles drew himself up, acutely aware that the table was glancing between the two of them, confused.

 _I haven't had one since I arrived_ , he said. Hank shook his head.

"That's only because of him." He nodded in Erik's direction. Charles glanced over to find Erik watching him curiously.

It hadn't occurred to Charles until then, but it made sense. He didn't have panic attacks when he felt safe--when he was home or surrounded by things that made him feel comfortable. Sometime in the past few weeks Erik had become home to him, and it had meant an end to the attacks. That probably wasn't healthy, Charles realized.

"Adrenalin," Charles decided upon answering, much to everyone's--save Hank and maybe Emma, who was undoubtedly eavesdropping--confusion. "I'll be operating on adrenalin; and if that fails, then we can simply train Mystique in how to deal with them."

"Deal with what?" Erik asked, finally losing his temper--though really, it had been a long time coming.

Charles grimaced, not particularly wanting Erik to know this about him, but Hank had made keeping that secret impossible.

 _I occasionally suffer from panic attacks_ , he said into Erik's mind. Erik's mouth fell open, his eyes widening further still--and really, it was almost as if Erik had a secondary mutation.

"You what?" he asked, just as loud as before. "And you think this is supposed to get me to agree to let you go? No, Charles; I absolutely forbid it!"

Charles exhaled, losing his patience now. He could have easily entered Erik's mind and swayed him to his side, but that was something Charles would never do--he had promised not to, but more than that, the thought of doing so to Erik was appalling. God, he really did owe Hank so many apologies.

Thankfully it was Mystique who stepped in to take his side.

"The last time I checked, we were still a Brotherhood, and that means we should be able to vote on it." Erik shot her a death glare, but Mystique continued on, unimpeded. "I'm sorry, I know how hard this is for you, but he's right; of everyone sitting at this table, there is no one more capable of doing this. There is a risk, certainly, but it is far less with him than with anyone else. You can't swaddle an omega level telepath in bubble wrap simply because you're in love with him."

This drew several murmurs of surprise from around the table, though Charles had no idea how they hadn't figured it out days--if not weeks--ago. Certainly neither of them had been particularly subtle--especially since Charles had arrived in Genosha.

For the first time since this argument had started, Charles saw Erik falter. Erik's respect--his admiration--for Charles' abilities had been one of the cornerstones of their relationship. To deny that now would have been a grave insult in Erik's mind. If Charles could just remind Erik of that, then he could convince him. He just needed time.

"We haven't even found Stryker yet, so we don't need to make this decision now. Just say you'll think about it," Charles said.

Erik didn't answer, but he nodded, shooting Charles a grateful look that was still somehow pleading. He wanted another option, and he was agreeing, Charles knew, in hopes that delaying his answer would give him time to come up with another option.

Charles glanced to Mystique, who nodded and then dismissed the room. Hank stood and made for Charles' side, but Charles waved him off, silently asking for a reprieve until morning. Everything else could wait.

It was obvious Hank wasn't particularly pleased--by being put off or by Charles delaying the rest of their Cerebro tests--but he stopped mid step, turned and left the room with everyone else. It left only Mystique, Charles and Erik--a quick glance in Mystique's direction had her leaving too. Charles wheeled himself away from the table, coming around to Erik's side--Erik having moved to stand by the windows while the room had cleared.

"Why don't we go back to our rooms?" Charles said. It was getting late, anyway, and the day had been particularly long--hell, by this point Charles barely remembered his lunch with Emma.

Erik glanced over his shoulder, expression haunted. "I don't know if I can do this, Charles. If something were to happen to you..."

"You don't think I'm going to feel that way every time you put yourself in harm's way for the good of mutantkind?"

Charles watched as Erik visibly hesitated. He seemed poised on making a decision, but then he shook his head, gesturing towards the door.

They didn't speak on the walk back to their rooms, Charles left with a vague sense of deja-vu after last night. As soon as they got back, Charles made for the dresser, where he still had half a bottle of the whiskey he'd taken from Hank's room. He poured two glasses, using paper cups from the bathroom because he had no idea where Erik kept his glassware. He handed one to Erik.

Erik took a sip and then frowned, staring into his cup.

"Why didn't you tell me about your panic attacks?" he asked, glancing up then to make eye contact.

Charles swallowed a mouthful of whiskey. He shrugged.

"Because they'd been getting better, happening less frequently, and I'd hoped they were on the verge of disappearing entirely."

Erik didn't look convinced, so Charles elaborated.

"After Moira..." He shook his head. That was not where he wanted to start. "At first, I'd have them several times a day. It went on for months. Then maybe once a day, then once a week; then only when I was stressed or uncertain or outside of my comfort zone. The last few years they've been few and far between, and only when I was feeling particularly insecure. The last true one I had was just after we got back from our road trip, though I experienced the beginnings of one when I arrived at the airport.

"But here; since I arrived, I haven't had a single attack." Charles didn't mention the few that had threatened. "I've gone outside my comfort zone. I'm half a world away from my comfort zone; that has to mean something."

Erik was still watching him, still not saying anything, so Charles took another sip of his whiskey--surprised to find that he'd drained the cup. He wheeled back to the dresser to pour another. When he turned back to Erik, Erik was wearing that same expression he'd worn the other night, the one Hank had put on his face when he'd asked Erik about the men he'd killed.

"I can do this, Erik. I promise you, I can do this."

Erik shook his head.

"That's not..." Erik paused, his thoughts blaring painfully with indecision. "Is there anything else, Charles? Because you didn't tell me about the panic attacks, so I need to know; is there anything else?"

Charles shook his head, even as he considered the question. Erik's gaze didn't waver, so Charles sighed, resigned.

"Do you want all the gritty details?" he asked. "Do you need to know that I can't piss without inserting a catheter in my urethra? Or that every morning I have to take a stool softener so that I can have a bowel movement? Or that if I don't change positions at least three times a night I'm liable to get horribly painful and often debilitating bed sores? I know these are things I need to take into consideration--but it's not like they're going to lock me in a cage and let me rot."

"How the fuck do you know that?" Erik asked, that same anger that he'd carried in their meeting surging forward. He deflated instantly, shaking his head. "That's not what I was talking about, but yeah, it's a concern."

In a single swallow Charles drained the rest of the whiskey. He set the empty cup down onto the dresser and then wheeled himself to the bed. He wasn't anywhere near ready to crawl into it for the night, but he wanted a change in positions--a chance to escape his chair because he feared it was what was making Erik so reluctant to entrust him to this task. He transferred neatly into the bed, pushing himself up until he was leaned against the headboard.

Erik still stood in the middle of the room. He was staring into his paper cup--still full by the looks of it. He glanced up at Charles, but didn't move, seeming rooted where he stood.

"I need to know if this is a problem?" he asked.

Charles frowned, uncertain exactly what it was Erik was driving at. When Erik didn't elaborate, Charles reached out to peak. As soon as he saw it, he drew away, burnt. Apparently the chair wasn't the problem.

"You've been talking to Hank." Charles was unused to indignation, but he felt it now, mingled with anger and a desire to climb back into his chair and leave the room. Instead he forced himself to remain where he was.

"I have," Erik said. "And I need to know if this is a problem."

"I..."

"Tell me it's not and I'll drop this right now. I'll ship you off to Stryker and we'll play by your damn rules and I will never bring it up again. But don't lie to me. Don't ever lie to me. It's not something I can tolerate."

Erik was trembling by the time he had finished, his mind screaming like his whole world was falling apart. His thoughts were so filled with despair that Charles flinched to hear them. He had no idea how to answer Erik's question. He knew how he wanted to answer it.

Erik's gaze narrowed, his eyes seeming to bore into Charles'. Charles opened his mouth several times to say something, to tell Erik he was fine; that it wasn't a problem, but every time he did nothing came out. He thought about his mother and all the times she had said the same. He thought about his stepfather and all the times he hadn't pushed. He thought about Moira.

"Is this a problem?" Erik asked, firmer this time. Charles swallowed, tasted whiskey on his tongue.

"I don't know," he whispered, and that, at least, was truth.

Erik's entire body relaxed at that, his thoughts filling with such relief that Charles was momentarily taken aback. This was not the reaction he had been expecting. His expression must have said as much--must have conveyed his confusion--because Erik immediately crossed the room to sit on the edge of the bed, facing Charles. He set his untouched drink down on the nightstand, and then reached up to cradle Charles' cheek.

"I can live with that," he said, leaning forward to press their lips together. When he pulled back, Charles could tell that his earlier anger--his earlier worry--was gone. "Now get some sleep. Tomorrow we find Stryker, and then we have a fake raid to stage.

"You mean...?" Charles said, sitting forward excitedly. Erik's eyes reflected his fear. Charles was shocked to see them water.

"Don't make me regret this, please."

"I won't," Charles promised, pulling Erik towards him.

~*~

In the morning, Erik woke to an empty bed. He panicked briefly, before he heard Charles in the bathroom. The door was ajar, which struck Erik as strange, because Charles was an exceedingly private man--and knowing now some of the things Charles had to endure, Erik could understand the need.

Erik slipped quietly from the bed and padded to the door, peaking inside in case Charles had merely forgotten the formality of closing the door. He found Charles sitting next to the sink, whiskey bottle and Erik's untouched cup sitting on the counter. He was frowning at them both.

Erik stepped over the threshold.

"My mother was a drunk," Charles said. He didn't glance up or otherwise acknowledge Erik's presence. "I hated her for it."

Erik couldn't think of anything to say to that, so he remained silent even as he stepped forward, hand coming to rest on Charles' shoulder.

"I don't want to be that. Tell me I'm not that," Charles said, the words barely a whisper. He glanced up this time, meeting Erik's eye in the mirror. Charles' eyes were red-rimmed and blood shot, dark circles making him look haggard. Unlike yesterday, today Charles' baldness made him look unwell; like he was fighting some atrocious sickness that had sapped him entirely of his strength.

"You don't have to do this. We don't have to do this. We can find another way," Erik said, because he could not place this Charles in Stryker's hands.

"No," Charles said, "we do." He reached for the cup first, tipping it into the sink. The bottle came next, Charles hesitating only briefly before it too was poured down the drain.

The glass made a resounding thud when he placed it back on the counter.

"I'm not that," Charles said.

"Okay," Erik said, squeezing Charles' shoulder a second time. Charles smiled at their reflections, then turned his chair and left the room.

Charles hadn't scheduled physio this morning--something Erik suspected Linda wasn't entirely pleased about--instead insisting they dress and get to Cerebro as soon as possible. Erik agreed, but only because he was desperate for something to dispel the awkward tension that lingered in the room.

Erik knew twenty-year marriages that didn't have this much baggage. He supposed that was what happened when two self-admittedly fucked up people decided to form a union. He just hoped airing everything now might save them some trouble down the line--but, God, there were moments when this all felt entirely too fast, entirely too rushed; when he would have given anything to slow all of this down, to take Charles somewhere safe and just spend countless hours nestled in bed with him. Maybe after all of this was over they'd take a vacation--or hide away in Charles' mansion, playing chess. He was starting to understand why Charles had spent the better part of ten years never leaving.

"Come on," Erik said when they were finally dressed and out the door, leading Charles in the opposite direction from Cerebro.

"I thought we...?"

"Yes, but first we're getting coffee and pastries, because I am starving, you need to eat, and the fresh air will do us both some good."

Erik led Charles out of the compound and down to a small cafe near the fishing docks. The smell was horrid, but the place had the best coffee this side of Genosha, not to mention pastries that rivalled anything found in the cafes of Paris. He had to float Charles' chair most of the way there, because there were more stairs than anything else--but also, because he liked being in such close contact to something so intimately connected to Charles.

Without his helmet--it still felt strange not to wear it--or his cape, no one recognized him as Magneto, leader of the Brotherhood. Charles drew a few stares--Erik didn't think there was anyone on Genosha who didn't now know who Professor Xavier was--but their eyes tended to slide right off Erik, ignoring him completely, despite the fact that there were very few mutants on the island capable of floating a metal wheelchair.

It suited Erik just fine.

The coffee, when they finally arrived, was just as good as he remembered it being. They ordered pain aux raisins to go with their coffees, and then walked back to the compound.

"This was a good idea," Charles said, tipping his head back to bask in the sunlight. Now that he had finished eating, he had taken to inhaling sharply, savouring, Erik suspected, the fresh sea air.

"It's probably important we do at least one nice thing a day," Erik said, laughing at himself for sounding so hopelessly sentimental.

Charles smiled warmly beside him. "It's not sentimental. It's actually a good idea, although, I think we've managed a little bit better than that so far."

"Yes, yesterday's blowjob counted for at least five nice things," Erik said, earning one of Charles' genuine laughs.

He liked this; that no matter how often they fought, or how much it seemed like their world might implode, they seemed to always find a way for this--just open warmth and contented happiness that Erik was unused to experiencing. Sometimes Charles made everything seem so impossibly easy. In this moment, Erik was convinced they could execute Charles' plan and have it go off without a hitch; that they would bring Stryker to justice and secure a better world for mutantkind and probably find enough time to settle down somewhere and simply bask in one another's company.

Of course their levity vanished as soon as they were back in the compound. The overwhelming inevitability of what they were trying to do loomed over their heads, Erik's thoughts turning sombre as he marched them steadily towards Cerebro.

"It's stupid, and would likely result in abject disaster, but I almost hope you don't find him," Erik said when they arrived.

Charles tutted. "It will be all right, you know." He sounded so certain--so utterly convinced--that Erik couldn't help but nod, feeling oddly bolstered by Charles' confidence. It still wasn't enough to dispel his worry.

"I still wish you could just execute your plan over Cerebro--I'd rather have you safe here."

"Cerebro doesn't work that way--I can't influence anyone using it," Charles explained, the same explanation he'd given last night, when Erik had asked.

"Then maybe I could come with you; a second fake collar for me, then at least I could keep an eye on you," Erik said. He'd suggested this before, too, and again Charles shook his head.

"We've been over this." Erik relented. They had, and Charles was right; it wouldn't work--too many factors to worry about, better that Charles go in alone where he would be better able to control all the variables.

"That doesn't mean I like it," Erik said. He would have said something more--maybe tried again to convince Charles to find another path, but by then they had arrived, and besides, he knew Charles' mind was set.

~*~

Inside Cerebro, Hank was already hard at work. He smiled upon seeing them, beckoning Charles to his side. Charles smiled, shot Erik a pointed glance, and then wheeled himself over to where Hank stood.

"I've reset the parameters to include the coast," Hank said, handing Charles the helmet. Charles accepted it, but didn't put it on.

"We'll do this additional test, but then I want global coverage, and please, Hank, don't argue with me."

Hank blanched. He glanced to Erik, and then back to Charles, shaking his head. "He's agreed to your plan," he said.

"And I've agreed to yours," Charles countered, giving Hank a pointed look. Charles watched as Hank shot a second glance in Erik's direction. Charles turned his head in time to see Erik's slight nod. A smile tugged at the corners of Hank's lips. Charles scowled.

"You're both going to feel like fools, you know," he said, because it would only take a few days before they realized Charles' drinking had nothing to do with dependence. He was not his mother and never would be.

Hank's smile vanished at that, and Erik looked more than a little concerned, but Charles ignored them both and gestured to Cerebro's control panel.

"We do this test, and then we start in earnest," he said. Hank nodded.

He initialized Cerebro while Erik sealed and locked the door, Charles fitting the helmet to his head. When he was done, he closed his eyes, gesturing to Hank that he was ready.

One minute he was sitting inside Cerebro, and the next he was floating outside his body, aware of so many minds, so many thoughts, that it was almost overwhelming. He focused his attention and concentrated only on the mutants, thousands of souls calling for his attention, beckoning his mind to their location. The process was enrapturing. Charles never felt quite as whole as he did when he was connected to Cerebro. He often wondered if he was only half a man without the full potential of his telepathy. It certainly didn't bode well for anyone who knew him, and had Charles been able--had he not been so caught up in stretching his mind--he would have felt a spike of sorrow for Erik.

Twenty minutes was not enough--it would never be enough, Charles' entire world growing dim as Hank ended the test. It was wholly depressing to return to his body, though Charles' earlier euphoria still lingered, balancing his emotions.

"Oh, how I've missed this," he said once Hank had removed his helmet. Hank acknowledged Charles' pleasure by jotting down a note in his clipboard. He then began asking Charles questions.

Things like: Any spotted vision? Headache? Nausea? On and on he went, a full medical questionnaire that Charles answered patiently, and always in the negative. When he was done, he asked for a minute, and then turned back to Cerebro's control panel.

"He's resetting the parameters now. It'll take a few minutes," Charles explained. Erik nodded. He didn't say anything, but Charles hadn't been expecting him to. All of this--Cerebro, what they were planning on doing--worried Erik greatly. There was nothing pleasant in his current thoughts. Charles offered him a reassuring smile, which Erik returned, though his mind remained clouded.

"Global coverage," Hank announced, sounding as proud as he did concerned. Charles nodded his thanks, shot Erik a wide smile, and then placed the helmet back on his head.

"Are you sure this is safe?" he heard Erik ask.

"Charles would know," Hank replied, which seemed good enough for Erik, because he raised no further objections.

This time when Hank initialized Cerebro, Charles found himself extended over the entire world. He took several moments to simply bask in being connected to so many minds. He let the raw power of it--the excitement of it--wash over him, sinking into every pore until he was thoroughly saturated. Charles may down the occasional drink, but this was his addiction--Charles knew this without question. He would spend eternity connected to Cerebro if he thought his mind could handle it.

Seeking a single person was not easy, but Charles had done it before--many a time. He began with a sweep of Stryker's last known locations, searching for Stryker and his known associates. When he turned up empty handed, he sought Scott's supply chain locations, examining each in turn. Again he came up blank.

For a while, he merely floated, suspended above the entire world, hoping Stryker's mind would simply leap out at him--it had happened before, and happened now, though it was Erik's mind that attracted Charles' attention. He thought briefly of singling out only humans--Stryker being human--but doing so required a whole different level of concentration, and besides, some of Stryker's known associates were mutants--brainwashed and following Stryker's every order, and if Charles had his way they would all be freed and rehabilitated when this was done.

In the process of scanning, Charles trying desperately to ignore the bright flare of Erik's mind, another mind drew his attention. A mutant, Charles thought, letting himself drift until he was poised above Argentina. The mind pulsed, and Charles knew instantly why he had been attracted to it. This was a mind he knew.

It was Logan.

But what, Charles wondered, was Logan doing in Argentina of all places?


	21. Chapter 21

"Logan."

Erik said Logan's name like it tasted bitter--like he wanted to spit. Charles frowned, trying to pinpoint the source of his animosity. Certainly their last encounter with the man hadn't been entirely pleasant, but from the colour of Erik's thoughts, he despised the man.

"Yes, Logan, and from what little I could read of his surface thoughts, I'm fairly certain he's being detained against his will."

Charles watched, frustrated, as Erik shook his head, seeming unable to get past the man's name.

"Explain to me again how it is you went searching for Stryker and ended up finding Logan?" There was definite distaste in Erik's tone--loathing too if his thoughts were any indication.

"I told you, when I couldn't find Stryker, I pulled back and simply allowed minds to call to me. I was hoping Stryker's might jump out, but instead I got pulled towards Logan's."

"Because you and he are such great pals," Erik all but spat. Charles' mind stuttered to a stop, comprehension dawning.

Charles removed Cerebro's helmet from his lap and set it on the ground, then wheeled forward until he was sitting directly in front of Erik. Charles bent his neck to meet Erik's eye.

"Tell me you're joking?"

"What?" Erik asked, seeming taken aback. He was still scowling, though; still thoroughly unimpressed that Charles had found Logan of all people.

"I'm telling you I think Logan is in Stryker's possession, which would mean we have a location on Stryker, and you're worrying about some invented interest you think I have in Logan?"

Erik emitted a sound that would have rivalled any one of Hank's angrier growls. He shook his head.

"First off, we don't know that. Logan could just be in jail--hell, that's probably exactly where he is and good riddance to bad rubbish. Second, I'm not jealous."

Charles arched an eyebrow, because Erik had rather just made his point.

"Logan's in jail, in Argentina, when only a few weeks ago we saw him in New York?"

Erik faltered. "There are trees in Argentina," he said, somewhat lamely.

Charles' expression softened. Somewhere behind him, he heard Hank tinkering with Cerebro. A brush of his thoughts told Charles he was studiously trying not to overhear their argument--Charles wished he could do the same; he was getting a little sick of having it.

"Logan didn't travel to Argentina to cut down trees. Stryker has him. Think about this, Erik. Six of Scott's seven suppliers are in South America. Logan is being held captive in South America. Logan was Stryker's last project. He escaped, so chances are Stryker wanted him back. What are the odds?

"And for the record, you have absolutely no reason to be jealous."

Erik glanced up sharply at that, clearly offended by Charles' attempts to placate.

"Fine, so maybe you're right; maybe Stryker has him, but that still doesn't mean Stryker's in Argentina. We're not risking everything to get Logan out; he can take care of himself. Also, if you'd seen the way he was looking at you, you'd know I have plenty of reason to be jealous."

Colour crept into Erik's cheeks, his thoughts embarrassed. He hated this as much as Charles did. Charles let his tension drain, and then offered Erik a reassuring smile.

"So what if he was looking?" he asked, though having seen Logan's thoughts, Charles knew that he wasn't. "It's not like I'm going to cheat on you."

Charles wasn't certain how he was expecting Erik to respond to that, but he wasn't expecting his eyes to grow wide, his colour to drain or his thoughts to sound alarms, like that had been exactly what Erik was thinking. Charles froze, mildly affronted but also ridiculously hurt.

"How can you even think...?" It was not Erik's thought that stopped Charles mid-sentence.

It was Hank and the overwhelming surge of guilt that came from his direction. Charles turned, face frozen in a mask of disbelief. Hank briefly met his eye; then glanced down at the floor.

"You're kidding, right?" Charles asked. "That was fifteen years ago." He couldn't remember the last time he felt so angry; so betrayed. Hank glanced back up, mouth working, but no sound came out. Charles didn't give him the chance to find his voice. "I know you're not particularly fond of the idea of me and Erik, but this... this is uncalled for. Is there a reason you've been going out of your way to convince Erik-- _my_ Erik--that I am both a drunk and an adulterer?

"That's not... I swear, Charles, that wasn't what I was trying to do."

Erik had come to stand at Charles' side, and even without looking, Charles could tell that he was staring at Hank in abject horror. His thoughts raged with anger and betrayal and suspicion and so much hostility Charles had to push aside his own anger to reach up and place a steadying hand around Erik's wrist.

For some reason, Erik's involvement seemed to bolster Hank's confidence. He squared his shoulders, drew himself to his full height--impressive that--and stepped forward.

"First, I didn't try--and am not trying--to convince Erik you are either of those things. You do drink too much, Charles, and I worry about you, but we've had this argument more times than I can count, so having it again seems rather pointless. You chose to make him a part of your life, and that means all of it. He needed to know about the drinking, even if you don't think it's a problem--even if you still don't think it's a problem."

Charles seethed, but the sight of Hank, expression softening, shoulders drooping, stilled his tongue.

"I don't know why I told him about Moira, and for that I'm sorry. It was a long time ago, and you are a very different person now."

Charles wasn't sure what to make of that. His earlier indignation vanished, Charles left only with lingering hurt and a numb sense of detachment. Hank's remorse was genuine, his guilt overpowering. Erik still stood at Charles' side, clearly uncertain. He was waiting for Charles to decide what to do.

Charles squeezed his wrist, once, and then let his hands come back to his lap. He exhaled slowly before speaking.

"I think I might need some air, possibly some lunch," Charles said, because it was probably getting close to that time, but more importantly, Charles needed the space. He couldn't deal with Hank just yet. "Let's see if I can't make contact with Logan this afternoon, get an idea of where, aside from his coordinates, he is."

Hank recognized the truce for what it was. He nodded and turned back to what he was doing before their altercation. Charles turned to glance up at Erik.

"Do you know anywhere we can grab some chips? I haven't had good chips since I was away at Oxford."

Erik smiled, though it was clear they weren't done discussing this--and that he was still a little confused by what had just happened. "If you mean English style chips, then, yes, I do know a place, though we'll have to drive."

"Fair enough," Charles said, and gestured for Erik to lead the way.

~*~

It had been a long time since Erik had driven with Charles--not since their road trip, ironically enough, given their recent topic of conversation. It was nice to hold a steering wheel, Charles seated next to him, the windows rolled down; salt-kissed air streaming throughout the little black sports car--Charles had laughed and asked if it was stolen. Erik had assured him it was not.

"An impractical car," Charles had said while Erik struggled to fit his chair into the trunk--giving up eventually and wedging it in the backseat.

It didn't seem impractical now, the little car flying around the winding bends that characterized the coastline road. Erik's hands rested on the wheel, but he controlled the car with his power, skirting around slower vehicles, entire lines of cars pulling to the shoulder at his command. Indulgence, but Charles seemed impressed and Erik liked showing off.

He brought Charles to a little chip stand that stood on the edge of Genosha's least popular beach--mostly because it was comprised entirely of rock and shell, but also because the tide tended to drag driftwood and seaweed onto the beach and the smell sometimes rivalled that of the fishing docks.

As if on cue, Charles sniffed. "You're certainly going out of your way to show me the finger points of the island today," he said. Erik smiled, feeling all of his earlier uncertainty vanish.

"Trust me, the chips are worth it," Erik said, buying two boxes from a grey-scaled mutant whose azure eyes widened considerably when he recognized Erik--even sans helmet.

They sat on a small patch of sand, Erik perched on the edge of a boulder, Charles in his chair, and ate their chips--the second best Charles had ever eaten, he declared--watching the ocean lap against the shore. The sea was slightly rough today, though the sky was clear, the sun shining brightly.

"I'm not going to cheat on you, you know," Charles said, seemingly out of the blue, though their earlier unfinished conversation was still hanging between them.

"I know," Erik said, because he did. That wasn't what he was worried about.

"I made that mistake once, and almost lost someone. I'm not stupid enough to do it again." It was obvious Charles wasn't reading Erik's mind, because he would have known he didn't need to elaborate or convince Erik--he would have known that Erik trusted him completely in this. Erik's possessiveness, his jealousy, stemmed not from the fear of infidelity, but from the fear that someone someday would take Charles away from him--that someday, Charles would wake up and realize he could do far, far better than Erik.

Still, it was hardly something he could say, so he sat and listened, more than willing to learn more of Charles' past, even if the reassurance was unnecessary.

"I was so young--arrogant, really--and I thought with my telepathy I could get away with anything. I found out the hard way I couldn't. It took me months to convince Moira to take me back. I suppose there's some irony in that--bitter though it may be. If she hadn't she'd probably still be alive today."

Erik found himself sitting perfectly still, unwilling to disrupt the stillness between them. This was something Charles hadn't talked about--something Erik only knew from having read news clippings and the police report he'd forced Mystique to surreptitiously acquire. He was deeply curious, of course, but more than that, he wanted to know--wanted Charles to know--that he could be trusted with this.

"I don't remember much of the accident," Charles said, and even though Erik had been expecting it, it was still a startling thing to hear. "I have this brief memory of staring through a cracked windshield--I read later that I was trapped beneath the steering wheel, which I think must have hurt, but I don't remember feeling any pain, just detachment, like I wasn't really inside my body. But I remember staring through that windshield and seeing nothing but tree--leaves and branches as far as the eye could see.

"I woke up three days and two surgeries later in a hospital bed, unable to feel my legs." Erik couldn't help but reach over and take one of Charles' hands in his. He squeezed briefly. Charles smiled at the gesture, but the smile held no warmth.

"There was a police officer standing at the foot of my bed. He asked me if I was awake, and then calmly told me that I was being placed under arrest pending the charge of vehicular manslaughter."

Charles chuckled, a self-deprecating, entirely dejected sound.

"I had to ask who I'd killed. I didn't know Moira was dead at that point. It was the first I'd heard of it."

"Charles..." Erik said, but Charles waved the words away. He turned his head to meet Erik's eye.

"For the longest time I felt guilt more than anything else, and I couldn't figure out why I wasn't more devastated by her death. For a really long time after I thought perhaps I was incapable of love; like maybe my telepathy made falling in love impossible, or maybe my parents just screwed me up too much to love."

There was another story there, Erik knew, one that would no doubt leave Charles as broken as he looked right now. Erik wanted to say something, to offer some reassurance, but Charles wasn't finished speaking, and his next words took Erik's breath away.

"Then I met you."

Erik couldn't think of anything else to do save set his empty chip container down beside him, lean across the space between them, grasp Charles' face between his hands and pull him into a fierce kiss, so he did precisely that. Then he kissed Charles again just because he could, softer this time, nipping a little at Charles' bottom lip. When he pulled away, Charles' earlier distress seemed washed away.

"I trust you Charles, completely. And I know it's not going to go away overnight," Erik said. "And I can't promise I won't react inappropriately when someone else shows an interest in you, but I can promise to try, and you are more than welcome to slap me upside the head if it gets out of hand."

Charles laughed at that, a happy sound that went straight to Erik's heart, swelling it impossibly large. He didn't think he'd ever get used to the sensation. It was still shockingly new.

"I think I can live with that," Charles said. He smiled brightly, and then glanced out over the water. "I hate to say this, but we should probably get back."

Erik didn't particularly want to lose this moment either, but the time for dragging their feet was behind them.

"Are you sure you want to do this?" he asked, fighting the urge to bundle Charles off somewhere where he'd be safe--an impractical thought, because if Stryker's plans succeeded then nowhere would be safe.

"I'm sure," Charles said, smiling then, gratitude shining on his face, and Erik knew it was because Erik wasn't coddling him--something that Erik suspected would have mortified Charles to his core. Erik stood.

"Come on, then," he said, levitating Charles' chair to get it over the sand. "You go talk to Logan, and I'll get Mystique to pull some satellite surveillance, see if we can't get a closer look of this Argentina location of yours."

"You'll see Scott, too; see if he's made any headway on his prototype?"

Erik nodded, feeling like time was slowly compressing around them. They'd waited days for Cerebro's construction, railing against an abundance of leisure time, but now that Cerebro was finished and their time was limited, Erik would have given anything for just a few hours to themselves.

Instead he stowed Charles' chair in the car, climbed behind the wheel, and drove them back to the capitol compound.

He left Charles back at Cerebro with a kiss and a promise not to overextend himself. Charles rolled his eyes, but agreed, disappearing behind Cerebro's vault-like door and leaving Erik to himself.

His first order of business was to track down Mystique. He found her in one of the training rooms, sparring with Shadowcat. Erik watched them for a moment, enjoying the clean lines of their forms, appreciating Mystique's lithe agility and Shadowcat's fluid poise. It never ceased to amaze him, the variety in mutantkind--the tremendous potential all of his mutants possessed. He never felt more like a proud father then when he watched them at their best, doing what nature intended.

It was Shadowcat who noticed him first, hesitating long enough that Mystique got in a solid kick, her foot colliding with Shadowcat's chest and sending her flying backwards--something that never would have happened had Shadowcat been paying attention. Mystique stood, a frown settling over her features.

"You lost focus," she said, but Shadowcat merely nodding in Erik's direction, so Mystique turned, no surprise on her face, only mild annoyance at having been interrupted.

"Did he find Stryker?" There was urgency in her voice--she too was sick of waiting.

"No, he's found Wolverine, and he thinks Stryker's got him, which would mean there's a chance Stryker is where Wolverine is. I need you to hack some satellites."

Mystique's skin rippled, though she didn't change forms--she simply let her sparing tension dissipate, shifting from fighter to commander in the blink of an eye. She nodded Erik towards the door.

"This is going to happen fast once we have a location," Erik said as they left the room and headed into the hall.

"I expected as much. Don't worry, I've already assembled teams and plotted an operation."

Erik gave her a level look. "You knew I was going to agree to his plan," he said.

Mystique nodded. Erik shook his head, because of course she had.

"I have Scott leading the Alpha team--they'll be in charge of distraction. "I have Shadowcat in charge of Beta team--they'll be infiltrating, seeing if they can get their hands on any intel--we might as well take advantage of the situation. Storm's going to run Gamma team--they'll be covering your retreat. I'll need you and Rogue to get me and Charles into the facility."

"We may have to make a detour. If Stryker does have Wolverine, Charles won't want to leave him behind. We'll have to stage a rescue while getting you and Charles into place."

Mystique shook her head, exasperated. "Fun," she said, but she didn't complain.

When Erik was a boy, Schmidt used to tell him stories about Alan Turing's fantastical machine. Schmidt thought it a wonderful concept; thought it might someday revolutionize the world and that it was essential that people like them--mutants--learned to embrace and master the technology.

Years later, when the first modern computers began to surface, Erik had made it a priority to learn their uses--not because of the stories Schmidt had told, but because he had seen it as another means to get close to Schmidt, and at that point in Erik's life, finding and destroying Schmidt had been his only goal.

It still surprised him, though, how quickly these things advanced, and so when Mystique had first proposed they build a mainframe--that they connect it to ARPANET--Erik had been blown away by the potential--the possibilities. It still amazed him, no matter how many times he set foot in this room.

Mystique moved immediately to a monitor, fingers flying over the keyboard like the technology was a part of her--it was hard sometimes to remember that Mystique was almost as old as him; in addition to aging slower, she also adapted to technology at a speed which left Erik's head spinning.

"You know, I remember you mocking me for wanting to connect us to ARPANET," she said, even as she began hacking several of the world government's defence mainframes.

"I didn't mock it. I just said it had no practical applications outside the military or academic research."

Mystique laughed. "You're showing your age, Magneto."

It had been so long since someone had last called him that that Erik found himself rather taken aback. If Mystique noticed, she didn't say anything, instead sorting through satellite feeds, isolating any that showed Argentina--saving those that came anywhere near the coordinates Erik had provided.

"This may take a while," she warned, so Erik nodded, content to leave her to it; to seek out Scott and his prototype.

"Bring whatever you've found to my office later. Also, you're going to need a crash course in dealing with panic attacks."

Mystique glanced up at that, doubt clearly written on her face, but a level glance from Erik made her school her features. She turned back to what she was doing, wisely avoiding comment. She wasn't the only one uncertain about putting Charles in Stryker's hands, but it was too late now; the decision was made, and she had been the one to back it.

~*~

 _Interlude_

Logan woke to a bucket of cold water being thrown unceremoniously into his cell. He sputtered, coming awake instantly. Those fuckers had shocked him unconscious again. It was pointless to throw himself against the bars--adamantium, just like his skeleton--but Logan did it anyway, coming to his feet with a roar and charging the door. He thudded painfully against it.

The guard holding the bucket laughed.

"You keep laughing, bub, 'cause as soon as I get out of here, I'm coming for you first." Logan let his claws extend, reaching through the bars in a desperate bid to shred the guy's face off. The guard stepped back.

"I don't think we have to worry about that. I doubt Stryker's going to be letting you out of your cage anytime soon. It is the best place to keep a wild animal, after all."

Logan spat, hitting the toe of the guard's boot, who wasn't quite fast enough to get out of the way. He scowled and then nodded to his companion, who walked over to a narrow table filled with electronics. He flipped a switch, the bars of Logan's cage coming alive with electricity. The force of it knocked Logan back; he flew through the air, landing against the side of his bunk, back cracking painfully. At least he remained conscious this time.

"Son of a..." he managed, about to start spewing vitriol when suddenly there was someone inside his head.

 _Logan_.

"What the hell," he said aloud, glancing over his shoulder. "Who the fuck said that?"

"Might want to turn down the voltage next time; you've scrambled his brain," the guard wearing Logan's spit said. His companion laughed and turned off the switch. Logan glared at both of them.

 _Logan, it's Charles Xavier. Please try not to draw attention to the fact that I'm speaking with you._

That was harder to ignore, but Logan managed, going still, trying to make it seem like he was merely recovering from his injuries--which he was, his body slowly mending itself after his electrocution.

 _We don't have much time. I need as much information as you can give me, and I'm sorry, but I'm going to have to take it and it's not going to be pleasant._

Logan wasn't sure how to respond to that--not without giving himself away. He concentrated all his energy on thinking, _No, shit, I remember_.

The sound of Xavier' laughter filled his head; it was tinged with guilt. _Yes, and I'm still sorry for that. You're being held against your will, by William Stryker, yes?_

Logan concentrated. _Yes_.

The guards were ignoring him again, content that he'd been taught his lesson. Slowly--mostly because his ribs weren't quite healed yet--Logan pushed himself up and sat on the edge of his cot.

 _I need to see the room you're in. I'm going to slip into your head, so just look around, slowly as to not draw attention to yourself._

Logan nodded before he remembered himself; then concentrated on opening his mind, having no actual idea how this was supposed to work. A second later he became aware of someone inside his head. It felt like someone was looking over his shoulder, breathing against his neck. Logan couldn't say he liked experience, but at this point Xavier was probably his only hope.

Charles Xavier was the last person he'd expected to ever hear from again--even though his head was now filled with the knowledge of how to find the man should he decide to do so--but Logan remembered the power he and that metal bending friend of his possessed. If anyone could get him out of this mess, it was probably them. Logan had escaped from Stryker's clutches once before--a feat that had cost him his memories--but he doubted he'd manage it a second time, not without help.

Help had arrived, in the voice of a soft-mannered telepath--who was simultaneously digging through his memories even as he hijacked Logan's eyes. The experience was just as unpleasant as he remembered.

Slowly, with Xavier' nudging, Logan glanced around the room, taking in the bunker-like space. It was easier having something to focus on. A single door, thick steel and triple bolted, stood between the room and the rest of the complex--and Logan had no memory of anything beyond the door, having been unconscious when he arrived; hell, he wasn't even certain where he was on the planet.

 _Argentina_ , Xavier supplied.

 _Can you get me out?_ Logan asked.

 _Yes, we're coming_. And that was good enough for Logan. He showed Xavier the cages--three of them, all lined in a neat row, though not connected and none occupied save his own. He showed Xavier the line of tables with their equipment--radios and generators and other crap that Logan couldn't have identified if he'd tried. He showed Xavier the guards, lounging on two chairs now, watching a little black and white television--a soccer match, from the looks of it. He showed Xavier the line of shelves, stocked with blankets and toilet paper and bleach-worn towels.

And he showed Xavier the rack.

They hadn't used it on Logan yet--probably afraid to take him out of his cage--but he'd seen one before, back in Saigon--one of the memories Xavier had given him back, and Logan rather wished he hadn't. The guy they'd stretched on it had given up his secrets inside of minutes. It had been rather effective, if a little barbaric.

 _You're inside a detention area_ , Xavier said, and that sounded about right, so Logan nodded--again forgetting himself. _All right, hold tight; we're on our way_

 _Hey_ , Logan thought, not quite sure if Xavier was still around. He felt more than heard Xavier's sudden attention. _Make sure you bring me a cigar_.

It was hard to tell, but he thought Xavier might be smiling. Logan leaned back and did the same, casting a glance in the direction of his guards. The first thing he was going to do after Xavier and his metal bending boyfriend sprang him from this joint was tear those two to pieces.

Then he was going after Stryker.

~*~

Erik stared in horror at Cyclops' prototype, even as Cyclops explained how it worked--and more importantly, how it didn't work.

"So we have no idea if this is what they actually look like," Erik clarified when Cyclops was finished.

"No, but Charles should be able to telepathically project its true outward appearance, once he's seen the real things."

Erik nodded. He lifted the thing and held it gingerly in the palm of his hand. It was heavy. Its matching bracelet--the one Mystique would wear--was heavy too. They felt like a matching pair of shackles. Erik hated them.

"I want these things destroyed after this is done," he said, slipping them both back into the velvet bag Cyclops had provided. They clinked together inside the bag, though Scott had promised they were impervious to damage--adamantium, and they were lucky they had some on hand from a previous experiment, otherwise acquiring it might have taken weeks.

Cyclops nodded, still standing at ease, awaiting Magneto's next instruction. Erik was distracted by a warm, Charles-like presence in his head.

 _I've spoken to Logan_ , Charles said. _He hasn't seen Stryker, but he recognizes some of his men. He's being held in some sort of detainment area; inside what he thinks is a larger compound. They have him locked in a cage_. Erik scowled at that, because he'd told Charles he might end up in a cage, and apparently he wasn't far from the mark.

 _Where are you?_ Erik thought.

 _On my way to our rooms. Ms. Carter's meeting me there. I have a few personal things to take care of._

 _All right, I'll be there shortly; I have a few things to sort out here_ , Erik said, turning his attention back to Cyclops. Out loud he said, "Get your team ready. We're going to do this hot, so I need you ready to leave at a moment's notice. Erik trusted Cyclops to take care of what was necessary.

Cyclops saluted and moved towards the door. Erik glanced down at the bag in his hand and then set it on his desk. When he glanced up again, Mystique had taken Cyclops' place.

"It looks like Charles was right; there is a facility," she said without preamble. "Remote, too; like you wouldn't build something that remote unless you wanted it to stay hidden. Without his coordinates, we never would have spotted it."

Not waiting for an invitation, Mystique spread several satellite images--print quality, so Erik had to squint to make out the tiny squares that were meant to represent buildings--out over the top of the desk.

"The big facility is here," she said, tapping a blank area that read like a mountain range.

"Inside the mountain?" Erik asked. Mystique nodded. "That sounds like Stryker."

"Exactly." Mystique was smiling; all coiled energy and anticipation. It had been too long since he'd last had his people out on an actual mission. He'd let Charles distract him to the point of getting soft.

"How long do you need?" Erik asked, because this would all come down to Mystique. There was no one he trusted to plan this mission; not even himself, Erik too close to think objectively.

"Rush?" Mystique asked. Erik nodded his head. Mystique reached between them, grabbed Erik's hand, and pulled his wrist towards her, checking the time--it was hard to wear a watch when you preferred to strut around naked, Erik imagined.

"At least twelve hours. 0400 tomorrow morning, not a minute earlier." Erik calculated. Four hour flight if they pushed the blackbirds, six hour time difference; they'd be showing up on Stryker's doorstep at two o'clock in the morning, local time. That wouldn't work.

"You can have a little longer than that. 0800," Erik said, Mystique nodded, turned and then left the room.

And now that there was actually a timetable, Erik found himself growing tense. It wasn't his usual pre-mission tension; the heady anticipation that Erik tended to feel before going into battle. No, this was something else, a sensation almost akin to dread, clawing at his stomach until he thought he might be sick.

It was not a sensation he was used to experiencing. Erik shook it off, stood and went in search of Charles.

~*~

"I don't like this plan," Linda said, laying out supplies on the newly sterilized bathroom counter. She'd washed her hands twice since they started.

"I can't guarantee I will have the facilities to do this myself, and we have no idea how long I will be there."

"I'm giving you three days, after that I'm coming in to take you out," Erik said, appearing suddenly in the doorway. He glanced first to Charles, then to Linda, and then to the counter. Confusion coloured his thoughts. Charles felt himself flush, mortified, but this was Erik and he had promised not to keep secrets from him any longer.

"Linda is fixing me with a Foley catheter. I'll be able to keep it in for several weeks if necessary," Charles held up his hand when it looked like Erik might object. "It'll attach to a bag, so I won't have to self-cath every time I need to urinate."

Erik seemed startled by that, but his expression quickly settled, and he nodded, coming forward then to run a hand over Charles' head.

"Is it painful?" he asked.

"No, but in all likelihood he's going to end up with an infection," Linda answered in Charles' place. Erik's eyebrows rose.

"I have already promised to keep the site clean. It's fine, Erik. I will be fine." Charles didn't particularly want to go into the rest of it--like the fact that he'd need to self-administer an enema shortly before leaving and then regulate his food intake so that he could avoid dealing with his other bodily functions during his time away.

Erik's earlier question came back to him then, Charles finding himself confused, because he couldn't fathom what would have made Erik ask such a thing--he already knew Charles used catheters and this was hardly that different--certainly not different enough to warrant being called painful. Without going deeper, Charles scratched the surface of Erik's thoughts and found the nagging centre of worry that Erik was doing his best to ignore. It wasn't just this upcoming mission--or Charles' role in it--or any of the other myriad of things they had fought about in the last few days.

"I look unwell," Charles said when he found it. Erik seemed startled, but he relaxed a second later, shaking his head in a manner that was meant to be chastising.

"You look pale, and you're sweating a little, and you have very pronounced bags under your eyes. Tell me you're not coming down with something, because otherwise we're calling this off right now."

Linda glanced up sharply at that, already reaching for her supply bag. She pulled out a thermometer and shoved it gracelessly under Charles' tongue. Erik watched, seeming content. A spike of admiration--and incredulity because she was still human--ran through his thoughts. Charles sighed, feeling put upon. He assessed.

He wasn't feeling sick, only tired and little unfocused. Pre-mission jitters, he told himself, and it seemed a plausible explanation. He waited until Linda removed the cold piece of glass from beneath his tongue to answer.

"I think I may require a decent night's sleep before we leave, but aside from that, I feel fine," he said. Erik continued to look skeptical. He glanced to Linda--who was currently feeling Charles' glands--for confirmation.

"No fever, no swollen lymph nodes; if it's anything, it's just a cold," she said. Erik nodded, appeased.

"We're scheduled to leave at 0800 tomorrow morning. You two finish up here while I head out and pick us up some food. We'll make it an early night," Erik said. Charles nodded. "Ms. Carter, when you're done, if you could find Mystique, I need you to give her a crash course in dealing with any problems that might crop up."

"He means the panic attacks," Charles added, rolling his eyes.

"Or you get sick, or end up with an infection--I want full contingencies here, Charles, and I'm not taking no for an answer."

Charles wanted to object--he wasn't a child--but Erik's expression brooked no argument, so Charles relented. Erik thanked him with a nod, and then swept out of the room, closing the door behind them, granting Charles some privacy. Linda moved to the sink to wash her hands a third time, even as she said, "Drop the pants."

The hands that Charles brought to his belt were trembling slightly. He told himself it was only nerves. The lie sounded implausible, even to his ears.


	22. Chapter 22

Charles stared in the mirror at his reflection, willing his nausea to subside.

He'd spent the better part of the night awake--likely would have spent it tossing and turning had his legs not prevented such a thing. What little sleep he'd gotten was plagued by dark, disturbing dreams. This morning he'd woken before Erik, extracted himself from the death grip Erik had on him, and retreated to the bathroom, where he'd promptly emptied the contents of his stomach into the toilet.

Erik was awake now. Charles could hear him moving about the room, respecting Charles' privacy--and Charles was glad now he had insisted upon it. They were due to leave in two hours. Charles wasn't entirely certain he was going to last that long; let alone the four hour flight, or the upwards of three days he was supposed to spend in Argentina. His hands were trembling almost constantly now--and there was no way he was going to be able to do the things he needed to do this morning, not without help. There was also no way he could deny what this was. Charles had seen the effects of withdrawal on his mother, shortly before she'd succumbed to the illness that had claimed her life.

He wasn't that far gone yet, so it was just a matter of mind over body--something he was infinitely good at. In a few days, a week at most, he would be perfectly fine. A physical dependence did not imply a psychological one.

Bending over the sink, Charles splashed his face with water, padding it dry with a fresh hand towel. His toiletry bag still sat on the counter and he packed it now with everything he needed to get his morning underway. Hoping Erik hadn't thought to turn on any lights, Charles wheeled himself into the bedroom.

It was reasonably dark, Erik having only lit a single lamp--this on the far side of the room. The sun had yet to rise, though through the window the horizon was painted a vibrant purple--still not yet enough light to highlight Charles' paleness. Erik, who was busy dressing, turning to smile as Charles emerged from the bathroom.

"Good morning," he said even as he hesitated, his expression showing his concern--it lingered from last night, when Charles had begged off their chess match in favour of sleeping. Charles didn't need to glimpse Erik's thoughts to know what his worry stemmed from. There was no denying Charles wasn't himself. Charles offered his most reassuring smile.

"Just nerves," he assured. Erik relaxed a little.

"It's not too late to change your mind." There was something desperate in Erik's words. He still wasn't sold on this idea--still hoped another alternative would present--but he admired and respected Charles too much to forbid it.

"I know, and I'm sorry, but I haven't."

Erik's smile was grim, but he accepted the answer. He moved to step forward, into Charles' space, but Charles evaded him, turning his chair and wheeling towards the door.

He watched Erik's face fall--knew Erik was uncertain and fighting against the instinct to simply sweep into Charles' space and wring an answer from him. Charles hurried to explain.

"I'm sorry to do this, but I need Linda to check something." Erik's eyes grew wide. Charles backpedalled. "It's nothing serious, just the seal on my bag," he lied.

"Do you want me to come with?"

Charles shook his head--the halls outside Erik's rooms were undoubtedly well lit, and the last thing Charles wanted was for Erik to see him in full light.

"I won't be long. Shall I meet you in the hanger?"

Erik nodded. His stare was scrutinizing, but whatever he was looking for, he obviously didn't find it, Erik's shoulders sinking in defeat. He gestured to the bathroom and raised an eyebrow. Charles inclined his head, letting Erik know he was done with it. He waited until Erik disappeared behind the door--hesitantly, obviously not wanting to leave Charles' company--to wheel himself out of the room. Outside, Charles shied away from the sudden onslaught of too-bright light.

He fought the edge of a headache--one that had lingered from last night but was made worse by the light--and rode the lift down to Hank and Linda's rooms. He didn't particularly want to see or speak with Hank, but knew the possibility existed--then again, Hank was an early bird, and was probably already back in Cerebro, making the necessary changes so that Emma could use the device should it become necessary--and Charles had had to plead for that, Hank only agreeing because he understood its importance.

As luck had it, it was Linda who opened the door when Charles knocked. When Charles asked, she explained that Hank had already left.

"That's all right," Charles said, "I actually came to see you."

"I can see that," she said, opening the door wide and gesturing Charles inside. "Are you going to tell me what's going on?"

Charles hesitated, but Linda was wearing her professional, no nonsense face, so he found himself caving. He held up a shaking hand.

"I need some help with..." he gestured down.

Linda instantly understood what he meant, but instead of gesturing him towards the bathroom, she reached forward and grabbed Charles' still outstretched hand, bringing it closer for inspection. Charles didn't give her the chance to make a deduction.

"I've stopped drinking," he said. Linda glanced up sharply.

"How long?" she asked.

"About twenty-four hours now."

A frown settled over Linda's face. Charles couldn't remember how long the withdrawal had lasted with his mother. It had seemed endless--and later, pointless.

"Charles," Linda said, patiently--so very patiently, "this is going to get worse. You've got at least another two days of this--at least. Are you experiencing any confusion? Nausea? Vomiting? Hallucinations?"

Charles wanted to lie; oh how he wanted to lie.

"I was sick this morning, but the nausea seems to be clearing. No confusion, though I have a headache and it's hard to concentrate. No hallucinations."

Linda's mouth became a thin white line as she considered. She brought a hand up to brush against Charles' forehead. It was the kind of touch one might expect from a mother--not that Charles would know. He bore it grudgingly.

"This has the potential to be serious, Charles. You should be monitored while detoxing. I don't know much about this mission you're going on, but I'm going to have to insist against it."

Charles closed his eyes. He hated what he was about to do--funny how that had changed--but there was really no other choice.

"Is there anything you can give me, to take the edge off?" he asked, extending his telepathy as he spoke, making Linda more receptive to the suggestion, less insistent on bundling him into bed until his system cleared. She smiled.

"You're lucky I'm a nervous flyer," she said, all of her earlier seriousness gone. "I have a prescription that should help ease your symptoms." She crossed the room and disappeared into the bathroom, appearing a minute later with an amber-coloured pill bottle, filled in her name. She handed them to Charles. Charles read the label: Diazepam. "They'll likely help with the panic attacks, too." she said.

Charles turned the bottle in his hand, still shaking. He glanced up to find Linda watching him with a blank expression on her face.

"You'll need to take one pill, four times daily for at least the next three days; then lower the dose to one pill twice a day; then one pill once a day to help wean you off."

Charles nodded, opened the bottle and dry-swallowed a pill. He tucked the bottle into his cardigan's pocket. Linda smiled brightly, like he was spoiled child she had just convinced to take his medicine. Self-loathing coiled in his stomach.

"I'm sorry," he said, bringing his fingers to his temple. He removed the last few minutes of her life. When he lowered her hand, she blinked at him and smiled, uncertain.

"I'm sorry, Charles, but Hank's not here," she said.

"Oh, that's all right," he replied. "I was actually hoping you could help me with my morning preparations. It's a bit awkward you understand." He gestured to his travel bag, strung over the back of his chair.

Linda shook her head at him. "I did tell you it would be easier if you had someone to assist you."

Charles coloured. "Yes, but..."

"I understand; it is a fairly embarrassing topic. I assure you, I've done dozens of these over the years," she said as she nodded Charles towards the bathroom.

~*~

The Blackbirds were impressive things from this vantage point, and no matter how many times Erik saw them, he couldn't get over their size. They seemed so much smaller when he was strapped inside one; so much smaller when seen up in the air. Each bird only sat seven, but they had the capacity for double that, provided their occupants didn't mind not being strapped into a chair. On this particular mission, they would be taking a team of sixteen. Charles didn't need a chair, and Erik hated being restrained.

The hanger was bustling with activity, red track lights already lit so that the entire length of the track tunnel glowed somewhat ominously--they ran out under the city, emerging out the cliff face that framed the north-west coast of the island. The hanger bay was a domed subsurface room that rivalled most football stadiums for size. It sat beneath the capitol compound. Two months of the year, when it rained nonstop, the tunnels flooded and water dripped continuously inside the hanger.

Fortunately, it was still the dry season.

Erik scanned the hanger, mutants moving about like ants collecting food for their queen. Charles was nowhere to be found.

Erik wasn't an idiot--he knew what was happening; knew, too, that he should probably put a stop to this. He couldn't bring himself to do it, though--and sometimes he wondered if Charles was in some way manipulating him, though he knew, deep in his heart, that Charles would never do such a thing. No, this--his inability to refuse Charles anything--was set in stone a long time ago; almost upon their first meeting. But it was more than that, because Erik had seen Charles at work--had grown to be the man he was today hearing stories of Charles and the remarkable power he wielded--so Erik knew, no matter what, that this was something Charles was capable of.

Charles, he knew, would likely accuse Erik of putting him on a pedestal, but it was hardly his fault Charles belonged on one.

In his search for Charles, he spotted Cyclops gathering his team for a final check. Havok, Scarlet Witch and Pyro were each perfectly suited to the role Mystique had set for them--he could think of no other four mutants better at providing distractions.

Shadowcat hadn't assembled her team yet, but having already spoken to Mystique this morning, Erik knew they included Destiny, Gambit and Darwin. Whether they managed to pull any intel from Stryker's fortress was something Erik didn't want to speculate on. It wasn't part of the mission, but would certainly gain them an advantage; and besides, it would add its own distraction--give them a reason for being where they were, Stryker too smart to believe they'd simply attack a base without strength of numbers. He was rather hoping Stryker would assume they'd gotten word of the collars and had decided to investigate.

That left their retreat team, Erik spotting Riptide; tracking him as he crossed the room to where Storm, Iceman and Avalanche stood. Erik smiled. Mystique really was very good at her job. He had hoped one day to groom her to take his position as the head of the Brotherhood--something that had seemed a necessity given how often Erik's life was endangered--but now he realized that she was ready and that his leaving wouldn't necessarily see him fitted for a coffin.

It was almost as if thinking the thought summoned the woman in question, Mystique appearing, Rogue at her heel. Cyclops' velvet bag was clenched in her right hand.

"Where's the Professor?" she asked. Erik narrowed his eyes, confused. In response, Mystique rolled hers. "We've decided to make him an honorary member of the Brotherhood. Since it comes with a code name, we've decided to call him Professor X."

Erik's eyebrows shot up into his hairline.

"Destiny voted for Wheels, but I thought that might be offensive," Mystique continued. She was grinning.

"I'm going to pretend we didn't have this conversation. I'd suggest you not repeat it to Charles."

"Repeat what to me?" Charles asked, appearing seemingly out of nowhere. Hank was at the back of his chair, pushing. He looked a thousand times better than he had that morning--relaxed in a way Erik wasn't expecting.

"Nothing. Please ignore my idiotic minions," Erik said, brushing past Rogue--careful not to touch her exposed skin--to kneel at Charles' side. This time Charles didn't retreat--or even flinch for that matter--his projected thoughts warm and welcoming as opposed to the cold warning they'd been this morning. Erik reached into his lap to take his hand. It was clammy, but still.

"Hello," Charles said, smiling.

"Are you all right?" Erik asked, not wanting to overstep any bounds, but still churning with worry.

Charles squeezed Erik's hand. "I'm fine, really."

He looked fine, Erik realized; like he normally did. It was like the last day hadn't happened--and Erik wasn't sure he wanted to think about why that might be. Instead he smiled, leaned into Charles' space and pressed a soft kiss against the edge of Charles' mouth.

"Are you ready?" he asked when he pulled back.

"Let's find out," Charles said.

It took very little time once the order was given to get the equipment and crew loaded. They lashed Charles' chair to the deck next to the set of hanging straps Erik would cling to should things go terribly wrong. They had yet to close the hatch when the order was given to clear the hanger and open the track doors. Hank, who had followed Charles onto the plane, looked conflicted, but he gave Charles a brief nod and then hurriedly exited the plane.

Emma Frost was not so quick to obey--and when she had made her way onto the plane, Erik didn't know, still too preoccupied with watching Charles. She gave Erik a hard look.

"Try not to die. You can't imagine the paperwork our insurance company would make me fill out." To Charles she gave a friendly smile and then, winking in Erik's direction, she leaned down to press a kiss to Charles' cheek. "Try to take care of yourself," she said.

Erik tried not to scowl--he really did, because he had promised Charles--but it was hard not to, Emma laughing delightedly when she saw it. She inclined her head to both of them and then swept off the plane, the heels of her white leather boots clicking faintly on the stairs.

"Anyone else want to get in a quick goodbye?" Erik asked, quickly becoming exasperated by the long farewell. No one stepped forward, so he signalled for the hatches to be closed, bracing himself against the wall and floor with his power, extending the field to surround Charles' chair as an afterthought, wanting to spare Charles the turbulence.

The engines roared to life and then they were off, shooting forward at a tremendous speed, then out and up, en route for Argentina.

It was a clear flight; a clean flight, with hardly any turbulence and not a hint of bad weather. Erik wasn't one to believe in omens--something he only knew about because of his time with Magda--but he took this to be a good one. He passed the flight crouched next to Charles' chair, going over the plan again and again until he was certain it was beaten into Charles' head. Charles let out an exasperated sigh.

"Erik, love; it will be fine. I know this plan like I know the back of my hand--it is mine, remember?"

Erik shook his head. "I know, but you'll forgive me if I don't want to leave anything to chance." Charles shook his head, but he was smiling. "Just remember, you have three days and then I'm coming in the front door and I won't be held responsible for anything I might do to get you out."

Charles levelled him with a disapproving look, but Erik ignored it, because there was only so much Charles could expect from him and if it came down to Charles' life, then he would destroy heaven and hell to see Charles safe. Charles would just have to accept that.

"Three days, Charles, and I expect you to try and stay in contact during that time."

Charles' head shot up at that. "That I can't do," he said.

Erik narrowed his gaze. "Why not?"

Charles' expression softened, Erik recognizing the look he got whenever he needed patience to explain something complex. Were it anyone but Charles, Erik might have been offended.

"We don't know who Stryker has working for him or in his possession. If there is another telepath and I reach out to you, there is a good chance it will be overheard and then they will know instantly that my collar doesn't work. Influencing Stryker is going to be tricky enough, but since I'll only be doing it while we're in the same room, it will be less noticeable. Shouting across the country at you is going to make too much noise. I won't risk it just to reassure you. I'm sorry, but you're just going to have to trust me to get the job done."

Erik hated that Charles' logic made sense--hated having to agree to it, but he did, relenting reluctantly. Silence fell between them, which was precisely when Mystique announced their arrival.

Erik gave Charles one last beseeching look--a plea to change his mind, a plea to be careful, a promise to keep him safe--and then swiftly stood, grabbing the straps behind him, wrapping his arm through one and then magnetizing his hand in order to pin it to the wall. Charles offered a brief smile--a promise of his own to be careful and to come home safe--and then curled his hands around his armrests. The Blackbird sank towards the ground.

They were landing out of range, so that no one at the base was forewarned of their coming. The second Blackbird had circled around--it would land in sight of the base once they were in place, providing enough of a distraction to get Erik, Charles, Rogue and Mystique inside.

As soon as they hit the ground, Erik was moving, kneeling to release the lashings around Charles' chair. Mystique and Rogue were already out the door, Darwin and Shadowcat following a pace behind. Gambit paused to help Erik release Charles' chair.

"We not going to stay secret for long, oui," he said with a shrug. Erik shot him a grateful smile.  
Together they released the straps and harnesses holding Charles' chair secure to the flight deck, Erik taking over then, floating Charles chair down the stairs and onto the ground. Destiny swept out last, Riptide--who would stay and secure the plane--sealing the hatch behind them.

"We're going in through the south entrance," Shadowcat said, pointing over the horizon, Stryker's base not yet visible. The south entrance was only a guess, and that based entirely on grainy satellite images, but Erik trusted Mystique to have interpreted them correction, so he nodded his head, leaving the intel team to break off and head for their target.

"Let's go find Mystique's north entrance," Erik said, levitating Charles' chair, the foothills of a mountain the last place you wanted to bring a wheelchair.

The first half a kilometer was easy going; they stayed in the open and merely covered ground, getting close to their location. The last half a kilometer required a little more stealth, signs of life popping up all over the place--and from what Erik was seeing, the only thing this place could be was a military base. He only hoped it was Stryker's; that Logan hadn't pissed someone else off just by virtue of existing--and honestly, Erik wouldn't be surprised.

The north entrance was guarded--they'd been expecting it--but Charles had merely put his fingers to his temple and they'd walked inside, no one bothering to glance in their direction. Erik was feeling a good deal more confident about their chances--that was, until they hit the door.

Wood.

Ridiculously thick wood, without a hint of metal--Stryker was learning.

"I got this," Rogue said, stepping forward. Erik turned to Charles.

"You may want to do something to buffer the noise," he said, Charles looking startled before he brought his hand to his temple--the second time he'd done so since arriving, and Erik wasn't sure if he simply needed the concentration or if he was back to practicing misdirection.

Rogue, who had stepped forward and was now facing the door, hauled back her fist and then released it in a thundering punch. The door shook inside its frame. At Erik's side, Charles closed his eyes, his concentration becoming apparent. "One more ought to do it," Rogue said, and punched the door a second time, this time knocking it back onto the floor--a one woman battering ram, Erik mused.

They stepped through the door and into a long, dimly lit corridor.

"Can you put it back?" Erik asked after they'd cleared the downed door.

"Sure thang, sugar," Rogue said. she reached down to pick the door up--one handed, Erik noted--and then carried it back to its frame, forcing it back into place. It was by no means perfect, but given the dim light, it was doubtful anyone would notice--at least, not for a few hours.

"This way," Mystique announced once they were safely ensconced in the mountain. She led them up the tunnel--and Erik could think of no better way to describe the space they'd entered--and to another set of doors, these ones steel.

Erik flicked his wrist, pulling them open. From the direction they'd come, a deafening roar shook the corridor.

"That would be our distraction," Erik said, and it had come just in time, because beyond the steel doors was undoubtedly what they were looking for. Erik had been inside more of Stryker's facilities than he cared to count, and they all had one thing in common; he liked the underground, he liked them poorly lit, he liked them elaborate, but more than anything, he liked them well guarded.

The few guards who hadn't immediately rushed off to investigate whatever it was Cyclops' team was doing turned now to face the man who had just breached their fortress. Judging by the wide-eyed fear that appeared on many of their faces, they knew exactly who Magneto was--if the door hadn't given it away, then certainly the cape and helmet did. One of the men reached to the radio strapped to his shoulder, but Erik shook his head, crooked a finger and the radio came flying. Mystique and Rogue moved forward.

They didn't hurt the men--too badly, at least; and that was Charles' doing--but they did render them unconscious and relieve them of their weapons, one by one. Erik merely stood back and watched, always enjoying this particularly part of the show. Charles, on the other hand, seemed less than impressed.

"We weren't going to sway them with sound reasoning," Erik said. Charles shot him a glare, but Erik could tell by his expression that he reluctantly agreed.

As soon as they room was cleared, the threat neutralized, Charles took over, leading them towards where they were holding Wolverine--and how Charles knew what apparently Wolverine didn't was still something of a mystery, but Erik was hardly in a position to complain.

After navigating a maze of halls--more proof of Stryker if Erik ever needed it--they arrived outside a locked set of doors. Mystique, who was just finishing with the latest guard run-in, came to stand at Erik's side.

"He's in there?" she asked. Erik glanced at Charles, who nodded.

"He's in there," Erik said, and with a single gesture, ripped the door off its hinges. There was really no point being discrete now.

Inside, two guards immediately sprung to their feet, rushing towards the door. Erik made a come-hither gesture with his hands, the guards' guns immediately springing from their grasp. They fell into components as they hit the ground, scattering across the concrete floor, useless.

This time it was Charles who stepped forward, both guards hitting the floor at exactly the same time. Erik raised an eyebrow.

"Sleeping peacefully," Charles said, wheeling himself into the room. He spotted Wolverine immediately--who was watching the proceedings unfold with a vaguely impressed expression on his face--and wheeled to his side.

"Mr. Logan, it's nice to see you again."

Wolverine cocked his head. "You weren't kidding about coming," he said, and then, "you bring my ciggie?"

Charles laughed--Erik hated that the sound was directed at someone other than himself, but he grit his teeth and bore it, more for Charles' sake than Logan's.

"I did," Charles said, reaching into the pocket of his sweater to pull out a long metallic tube--Erik had sensed it earlier and had simply assumed it was a piece of medical equipment Charles required for his stay. He hadn't even considered the possibility of a cigar tube.

"While I'm sure this reunion is lovely and all, Logan, smoke your damn cigar. Charles, we got this--you and Mystique need to get into position."

Charles nodded even as he slid the cigar through the bars of Wolverine's cage. Logan accepted it gladly, already pulling it out of its tube and biting off the tip. He glanced pointedly at the long table that sat near the front of the room. On it, amongst empty foam coffee cups, newspapers and an ashtray filled with discarded butts, was a zippo. Erik flicked his fingers, floating the lighter into Logan's hand.

"Much obliged," Logan said, lighting the cigar and taking a drag.

Erik shook his head. He ignored Logan for the time being, turning instead to kneel in front of Charles.

"You are going to be careful, and you are going to be safe, and you are going to come home to me. That, Charles Xavier, is an order."

Charles smiled confidently, and then leaned forward, Erik meeting him midway for a kiss that hurt as much as it helped. When Charles pulled back, he looked more than a little lost.

"You be careful, too, and I will see you within three days." Erik nodded. Charles turned to glance at Mystique, who immediately moved to the door, ducking her head outside. She turned back and gave the all clear.

"See you in a few days," Charles told the room. He took a slightly unsteady breath, and then wheeled himself to Mystique's side. Together they disappeared through the door.

"Where the fuck is he going?" Logan asked, still puffing on his cigar.

"He's got his own orders; mine are to get you out. Come on," Erik said, reaching out with his power to pull the bars of Logan's prison apart. Logan stood back and watched, eyebrow lifting.

"Impressive," he said once Erik was done. Erik rolled his eyes and moved to the door, trusting Logan to follow behind.

~*~

Mystique moved like a shadow, darting swiftly and silently from cover to cover. She always made Charles wait until she indicated their path was clear; then she stood, poised and ready to fight, until Charles had wheeled himself to her side. Charles could have told her there was no one around. There was nowhere he wasn't--he floated through the halls, directing anyone and everyone away from the path they walked. He followed Erik, too--or rather, Rogue, since Erik's helmet blocked his mind from Charles' sight--knew precisely how close they were to exiting the facility.

The main battle was happening just inside the front gates. Nowhere near where Erik was now--nowhere near where their intel team were currently emptying filing cabinets and copying digital information onto floppy disks. Charles watched the fight through a dozen pairs of eyes. It was a spectacular show; designed so that no one got hurt but so that everyone was thoroughly turned around and utterly confused.

This wasn't how the Brotherhood usually fought, and they were undoubtedly frustrated, but Charles was grateful to Erik for having stipulated their restraint. As they neared the battle--the exact place Mystique was leading them--the sound of it began to reach their ears. Roaring rushes of fire and thundering booms of explosions, coupled with the rat-tat-tat of gunfire sounded in their ears. It was deafening. Charles did his best to block it out, thinking absently about the pills in his pocket. So far, the dose he'd taken upon landing was keeping him level and calm. He didn't want to think about what this would be like without them. The urge to panic and flee--and given a choice between fight and flight, Charles always preferred a tactical retreat--overwhelming even now.

Instead he let himself float in an artificial bubble of calm, and followed Mystique into the thick of it.

She stopped them at the start of a long hall, ducking down to hide behind a series of steel pipes that undoubtedly vented to the outside world. Beyond, at the hall's end, a wide door opened into chaos. Charles could see several soldiers crouching behind crates and pieces of equipment--two cowered behind an overturned table, looking far too young and far too green. Charles sent out a single thought and the soldiers blocking their entrance stood suddenly and walked through the open door. They came down the hall, passing Charles and Mystique without noticing their presence, continuing their march until they were safe and away.

The door led into what looked like a control room. The far wall had been knocked out--and that, Charles suspected, was Havok's doing. Beyond, rolling foothills led away from the mountain and down into a valley. Not three-hundred meters from where they stood, Charles could see the second Blackbird. Stryker's soldiers were trying to advance towards it.

Charles watched, amazed and intrigued, as fog lifted from the dry, too-warm ground. It shrouded the area in murky mist, obscuring the plane and the mutants who continued to destroy unmanned equipment and infrastructure.

"Move," Mystique said, just as a particularly loud explosion sounded, shaking the ground beneath their feet.

She got them to the other side of the room and behind a control panel just as a new wave of soldiers appeared through the door they'd just entered. All of them were carrying surprisingly familiar collars. Scott had done a good job of estimating their appearance. It wouldn't take much to project their true appearance.

Mystique eyed them critically even as she turned to Charles. "It's time," she said, shifting her form, becoming a nondescript looking soldier wearing the uniform of the men obviously trained to act as a mutant controllers. She pulled the velvet from her pocket--and how it had gotten there when she was naked a minute before was something Charles couldn't figure out, but desperately wanted to know.

The bag she discarded, even as she released the collar's clasp. "Are you ready?" she asked, waiting for Charles' nod before securing the device around his neck. Even knowing it was inert, the collar felt like a noose--far, far too heavy. Without comment, Mystique sealed the matching bracelet around her wrist. When she was finished, she gestured for them to move outside, through the gaping hole. Charles put his fingers to his temple and set about getting them out without notice.

 _Interlude_

"Sir, they've caught one," someone said, Stryker glancing up sharply from the screen he'd been watching.

A private stood at attention, breathless from his run to Stryker's monitoring room--shielding from mutants just like every other room Stryker used. After seeing what his son could do--God rest his soul--Stryker didn't trust to chance.

"You've caught one?" Stryker confirmed, glancing back to the bank of monitors, where chaos still reigned. None of it made any sense, the attack seemingly random, designed to confuse and disorient, not inflict any real damage. He'd recognized Magneto in one of the frames--gone now, disappeared back the way he'd come with no real explanation for his presence; save that he'd taken Wolverine, but rescue missions were hardly Magneto's style. What was the man doing?

"Sir, the mainframe's been breached," one of his operators said. He shifted through the security feeds until he found the room in question. A group of mutants were in the process of making a hasty retreat.

"So they know about the collars," Stryker mused. That was more Magneto's style--they'd be off within minutes, all of Stryker's carefully guarded secrets in their possession, already hard at work on finding a way to override the collar's circuitry. Stryker cursed. One of these days he was going to find and kill Magneto, and then he wouldn't need to worry about collars or control--he'd simply wipe out every mutant on the planet without ever worrying about retribution.

"Is that the only reason they came?" the woman standing at his side asked. Stryker turned to look at Angel, suppressing a shiver when her wings fluttered nervously behind her. She repulsed him, but so long as she wore that pretty little piece of adamantium around her neck, then Stryker would tolerate her presence.

"You know Magneto--quite well if I remember," Angel shrugged. She'd told him nothing of her time in the Brotherhood, no matter how many methods they'd employed. "Would he risk this many mutants just for some intel?"

"Probably," Angel said, but there was something defiant in her stance--something that said she was probably lying. Stryker turned back to the private who had brought him news of a captured mutant--he was still standing at attention, still awaiting Stryker's orders.

"Bring this mutant to me, and whoever made the capture," he said.

As soon as the private was off, Stryker turned back to the monitors. The mutants were retreating now, out the south entrance, which meant they probably had another plane hidden somewhere. Stryker could give chase--shoot the things out of the sky--but he wanted to see how this was going to play out. He wanted to know Magneto's plan.

He glanced again to Angel even as he crossed the room to retrieve his helmet--an exact duplicate of Magneto's. He set it atop his head, turned back to stare at the door, and waited.

When the private returned he brought with him a second private Stryker didn't recognize--not unusual, there were hundreds of men and women in his service--and a man in a wheelchair; a man Stryker would have recognized anywhere.

"Professor Charles Xavier," Stryker said, even as his mind reeled. What was Xavier doing with Magneto? By all accounts the men should be enemies, their philosophies completely different. Stryker glanced to the collar fitted around Charles' neck; then to the soldier defiantly wearing its matching bracelet.

Stryker nodded to the lieutenant standing just inside the door. The man pulled a gun from its holster, aimed and fired. A single dart pieced Xavier's neck.

Xavier, who had been watching Stryker--or rather, staring at his helmet--with something akin to fear on his features, brought a hand up to grasp at the dart, eyes already beginning to fog. The soldier wearing Xavier's bracelet stepped forward.

"Sir, he's already detained," he said, but Stryker gestured a second time, his lieutenant putting a dart into the unknown private. Xavier's eyes grew wide.

"I know my collars when I see them, and that, is a forgery," Stryker said, gesturing a second time, even as Xavier struggled to bring a hand to his temple--and Stryker knew his trick, but the tranquilizer combined with the helmet kept him perfectly safe, so he smiled pleasantly, even as his lieutenant switched out Xavier's fake collar for a real one.

The unknown private, who was already shifting form, revealing the mutant Stryker had suspected, was soon fitted with a collar too--this despite her struggles. Stryker smiled.

"Search them, and then lock them down. And then I want a sweep of the entire base; make sure they didn't leave anyone else behind, and get me an inventory of everything they took," he said, stepping around the now unconscious and collared mutants as he left the monitoring room. What Magneto had been hoping to accomplish, Stryker didn't know, but he was sure as hell going to find out.


	23. Chapter 23

The villa in Ecuador was only one of Magneto's many strongholds--he had them scattered across the globe, most appropriated from dead Nazis. It was a small place--little more than a country cottage--but it was remote, and close enough to Charles that Erik could get to him in a reasonable amount of time should anything go wrong.

Still, there were complaints: from the shortage of beds to the lack of running water to the absence of electricity, it seemed no one--save perhaps Gambit, Rogue and Wolverine--was particularly impressed by the place.

"This isn't open for debate," Erik had told them, feeling Magneto lurking over his shoulder then, wanting to step in and take over--to get back in the Blackbirds, fly to Stryker's base and raze it to the ground. He had idle fantasies of throwing Charles over his shoulder and taking him someplace safe.

Erik wanted a relationship with Charles based on mutual respect and admiration, whereas Magneto wanted to carry Charles off; to keep him as a concubine. There were days when Erik couldn't remember why he'd ever walked around wearing Magneto's cloak. Clearly the man was unhinged.

And what that said about him, Erik didn't like to contemplate.

Still, he wasn't so far removed from his role as the Brotherhood's leader that he couldn't maintain control of the situation. He had one of the birds out already--had sent Shadowcat, Cyclops and Storm to run surveillance. He wanted to know the minute Stryker made a move. He may not have eyes inside the compound, but he could sure as hell monitor it from afar.

He had Destiny and Darwin searching through the material they'd brought out of the base. It was wealth of information, and should prove useful even if Stryker did discover it was missing. The files on mutant detainment camps alone made the trip worthwhile.

He had the others making the place as habitable as was possible--and by that he meant defensible, because he honestly couldn't care less about the dust that had accumulated, or the gigantic spider that had claimed the washbasin as her home.

More importantly, he had Wolverine agreeing to stay put--this after Erik had been forced to drag him out of the base by his skeleton, Wolverine snarling and growling and complaining about Stryker and how he was going to rip the man to shreds. "You're not touching him," Erik had said, Wolverine going off on a tangent about how it was none of Erik's business and why didn't he just go find his crippled boyfriend and leave Wolverine the fuck alone.

Erik had taken particular care to extract Wolverine's claws while simultaneously bending the metal backwards. Wolverine had howled in pain and promised to disembowel Erik at a later date--though his exact words were far coarser.

Now he was sitting peacefully, smoking the second half of his cigar as he lounged in front of his new domain--he had declared the house too crowded and claimed the woodshed as his preferred residence. He'd agreed to stay only because he felt he owed Charles something--for his life or perhaps his freedom, or maybe even his memories, Erik honestly had no idea--and so long as Charles was still holed up with Stryker, that debt remained unpaid. Erik couldn't care less; just so long as Wolverine didn't wander off and get himself captured again--because then Charles would be pissed.

A shriek from the house drew Erik's attention. He turned in time to see Riptide bolt from the house, looking almost as frazzled as he had upon arrival. The lack of running water was sending him into conniptions. He spotted Erik and picked his way--through long, overgrown weeds and grass, the property unused in many a long year--to Erik's side.

"There are cockroaches the size of rats in there," he said, and given how infrequently the man spoke, it amounted to probably the most words Erik had ever heard him utter--cumulatively.

"I hear one more complaint you're sleeping in the shed with Wolverine."

Riptide's eyes grew wide, even as he glanced over to where Wolverine was still sitting--on an upturned wooden grate that had at one point, Erik suspected, housed local produce. Wolverine caught them looking and bared his teeth--his idea of a smile.

"I'm sure he won't mind," Erik said, but Riptide was already shaking his head, stalking back into the house. Erik didn't need Charles' talents to know he was considering mutiny.

How they were going to last three days in this place, Erik didn't know. He could probably send half of them home, but if something came up and he needed to storm the palace--so to speak--he was probably going to need all the hands he could find.

He was only just now beginning to realize that leaving Charles behind had been a rather large mistake. Erik wasn't exactly made for diplomacy.

He also wasn't particularly good at exercising patience, and now he was expected to sit on his hands and wait until Charles executed his plan and brought Stryker to Genosha. Until Stryker began mobilizing his army, there was nothing for Erik to do save sit around and deal with the many and varied complaints of his followers--most of whom he didn't even particularly like.

This was probably all going to end in bloodshed, Erik realized, and at this rate none of it would be Stryker's. The thought was marginally depressing.

~*~

Charles was vaguely aware that someone was shaking him--firmly, hands wrapped around his shoulders. He fought against the fog threatening to overwhelm him and blinked his eyes open.

"Wake the fuck up, Charles, because otherwise I'm going to have to hurt you, and if I do that, I'm pretty sure Erik will hurt me."

Charles' brain stuttered awake. Slowly, his vision cleared and Mystique's face came into view. She looked equal parts exasperated and terrified. Charles blinked at her, shook his head--regretted it immediately--and then turned his head to discretely cough.

He found he was sitting in his chair, slumped over, Mystique on her knees before him, hands still grasping his shoulders. His vision swam, but he got a good enough look at their surroundings to take in their location.

"Are we in a cage?" he asked, and wasn't that just fantastic--he probably owed Erik something for this.

"Yes, and you need to wake up so that we can come up with a plan," Mystique said. Charles glanced back in her direction and found she was wearing a collar. Ah, so he hadn't dreamed that.

Well, that was okay; he could work with that.

"How long have I been out?" he asked, because it felt like a while--he was stiff and sore and his earlier dose of valium was starting to wear off. Charles reached into his cardigan pocket, his hand coming away empty. He checked the other one, just to be sure, but it was empty too.

Charles cursed, drawing an arched eyebrow from Mystique--though really; he should have thought to allow for this. It was always a distinct possibility. He shook his head--not so bad this time. This complicated things, but it didn't make them impossible.

Mystique had started speaking, but Charles missed the first part of what she'd said. He caught enough of the rest to make a reasonable deduction.

"...I woke up about an hour ago, so I'm guessing a few hours at most." Charles nodded. A few hours sounded right.

"All right, that's fine. Good."

They were back in that same room where they'd found Wolverine, locked together in one of the undamaged cages. There were no guards this time, and the cage Wolverine had occupied now had a rather large hole in its side--Erik's doing, Charles knew. It wasn't perhaps what he wanted, but it was workable.

"That's fine? That's good? What the hell is wrong with you?" Mystique asked, and Charles could tell she was half a second away from hauling off and slapping him across the face.

He sat up a little straighter in his chair, feeling rather awful, actually. His head was killing him, he was flushed and damp with sweat, and his hands were shaking again.

"I know this seems dire, but I assure you..."

"You assure me? In three days Erik is going to storm this facility to get you out. He's going to walk right into a trap, probably get himself killed in the process--hell, Stryker will probably use either of us to do it--and you assure me?"

She was panicking, Charles realized. Hands coming unbidden to her collar, she scrambled at it, tugging ineffectively, desperate to have it off. Charles reached forward to still her hands.

He only drew attention to the unsteadiness of his own.

"Oh God," she said, seizing his hands then, noticing the tremors. "Is this a panic attack? I can't remember what she told me to do--I swear I'm going to..."

"Breathe," Charles said, snatching his hands back and folding them into his lap. "I'm not having a panic attack," which, given the circumstances, was rather surprising. "You, on the other hand..." he let that float between them. Mystique looked scandalized. "I'm going to tell you something, but only because it's probably necessary that you know, but please, don't be alarmed, and please, trust me when I say we will be fine. I promise you."

Mystique looked skeptical, but she nodded--and Charles couldn't tell if her agreement came because of his relationship with Erik, or because of Charles' reputation. Charles exhaled.

"I am in the midst of acute alcohol withdrawal, but I promise you I will be fine."

Mystique's eyes grew impossibly wide--so wide in fact that Charles wasn't entirely certain eyes were physically capable of growing to that size. It was entirely possible Mystique was using her mutation to accentuate their size. They glowed unnaturally bright in the low light of their prison cell.

"You what?" she said. Charles shrugged.

"Apparently I have a drinking problem," he answered with as much self-deprecation as he could muster given the seriousness of the topic. "But that's not what's important."

He didn't get a chance to explain what was important, their conversation interrupted by Stryker's arrival. He strode into the room as though he owned the place--and belatedly Charles realized that he did--a team of soldiers flanking his heels. There was no hesitation in his movement--he walked purposely to the side of their cell, coming to stand before them. There, he stared down at them, a look of distaste twisting his mouth into an ugly line.

Without saying anything, he held out his hand. One of the soldiers stepped forward and placed two bracelets into his hand.

"Here's what I'm curious about," he said. "I've got Raven Darkholme, aka Mystique, right hand woman to Magneto, the world's foremost mutant terrorist, bent on the destruction of the human race. And at her side, working with her, colluding with her, I've got Professor Charles Xavier, noted scholar, geneticist and proponent of peaceful coexistence between mutants and humans--which will never happen, but it's a lovely thought. Something isn't adding up here, and you two are going to explain what that something is."

Charles could have answered--would have answered--but instead he watched as Mystique rose to her feet, stepped up to the bars, and spat at Stryker. She missed, but her point was taken.

"I didn't think it would be that easy, and while there are plenty of ways I could get you to talk, I think given the circumstances we should aim for efficiency, which is where these collars come in handy. You see, they don't transfer your powers--your abilities--to the controller; no, nothing as brash as that. They coerce obedience. If I'm connected to your collar, you don't get a choice in disobeying me."

Here Stryker chose one of the collars, seemingly at random, and slid it around his wrist, fastening it with an audible click.

"Ah, Ms. Darkholme," he said. Mystique visibly paled. It was a startling thing to witness. Charles rolled forward and reached out for her hand.

"It's all right. Just answer his questions," he said, giving a brief squeeze. Mystique didn't look reassured, but some of the tension left her shoulders.

"Exactly, Ms. Darkholme. And you will start by telling me what you were doing here."

There was nothing to suggest Mystique was being coerced--no struggle or shift in her facial features. She simply opened her mouth and out came the truth, exactly as Stryker had asked. She didn't even seem particularly concerned by it--and that, Charles thought, was perhaps the most interesting part of all. He was learning so much about these collars. They were fascinating, frightful things.

"The plan was for Charles to use his telepathy to manipulate you into attacking Genosha before you're ready. If we can get you onto Genoshian soil, then we can detain you until we get UN sanctioning to have you charged with mutant rights violations."

Stryker cocked his head to the side. "Well, I have to admit, that does sound like something Charles Xavier might have come up with. It still doesn't explain Magneto's role in all of this. He's hardly the diplomatic sort."

And here, if Charles could, he would have stayed Mystique's tongue, because knowing their plans was fine--it suited Charles' plan just fine--but knowing the connection between Erik and Charles made them both vulnerable--Erik more so than him--and Charles didn't want to give Stryker even an ounce of advantage.

But, Stryker had asked, and so Mystique answered.

"He's not. He wanted to kill you and destroy your work, but Charles convinced him to try a diplomatic approach."

Charles could tell that that interested Stryker very much. He leaned forward intently. "And pray tell; how has Charles Xavier done the impossible? How has he bent the mind of the great Magneto?"

"Magneto's in love with him," Mystique said without pause, and now Charles could see the horror in her eyes--the pleading for escape from whatever control Stryker had over her. He gave her hand another reassuring squeeze.

Whatever Stryker had been expecting, it wasn't that. He stood, frozen in place, absolutely gobsmacked by the news; his mouth hanging open and his eyes wide with surprise. He stuttered several times, and then huffed out a barking laugh.

"Oh, that is precious. Absolutely precious." To Charles he said, "You have my condolences."

"What do you plan on doing with us?" Charles said, wanting to deflect the conversation. For the first time since their meeting, Charles saw Stryker hesitate. The message was clear; he hadn't decided yet.

"For now I thought I'd let you enjoy the ambiance," he said, reaching down to unclasp the bracelet around his wrist. Mystique visibly sagged once it was released. "All this new information; I believe I need time to consider it." Stryker didn't add anything else, nodding instead to his troops and then following them from the room. Charles waited until he was gone to release Mystique's hand.

"Are you all right?" he asked. Mystique turned to glare daggers at him.

"How can you ask that? How is any of this all right?"

She was clearly rattled by the experience--not that Charles blamed her, but still, he had a few tricks left up his sleeve. He suspected she needed one right about now, so he offered his most winning smile and said, _Because my collar doesn't work_.

And now it was Mystique who looked gobsmacked. Her eyes grew round--almost as big as before--but before she could comment--give the game away, so to speak--Charles continued.

 _Or rather, I should say it works, but there are loopholes that any reasonably powerful telepath can easily slip through. I suspected as much the first time I saw Scott's schematics_.

"You mean you..." Charles shushed her, bringing a trembling finger to his mouth. She frowned at it, but ceased speaking.

 _We don't know who's listening, and we want Stryker to think my collar is functioning. Please believe me when I say I knew this was a possibility--a high probability, so to speak--and I have planned for it. It changes nothing unless you give me away. If you need to speak to me, simply think the thought--I will hear it_.

Mystique hesitated, as though she was working out how best to think a thought. She began slowly. _Why didn't you tell us_?

Charles' smile turned sad. _Because if Erik had known he never would have allowed my coming, and it is essential that we get Stryker onto Genoshian soil. And because if you'd known you would have told Stryker and then we would have been in a good deal of trouble_.

To anyone watching them it would look like they were staring intently at one another, so Charles glanced away, looking out the bars and sending Mystique the thought to do the same. She did, relaxing her stance into something between defeat and defiance--a little more realistic for the cameras, her mind reasoned.

 _I don't understand. He knows our plan now; he's not going to walk willingly into a trap_.

 _That's where you're wrong. I anticipated him finding out_ , Charles said. Confusion spiked in Mystique's thoughts.

Charles tried to convey his logic; tried to impart that he had known, practically from the moment he couldn't find Stryker--even back in New York--that Stryker likely had one of Erik's helmets--and the Brotherhood really should have extended their patents on the things--and that he wouldn't remove it unless he was absolutely certain he had Charles under his control. How better to give Stryker control than to allow him to collar Charles himself--to act as Charles' controller? It was the only way they could ensure Stryker would let his guard down enough to remove his helmet--to trust himself unprotected in Charles' presence.

And it had obviously worked, because the Stryker who had appeared outside their cell hadn't been wearing a helmet.

 _The advantage to him having our plans is that now he thinks he has the tactical advantage. If anything, him knowing will only ensure that he acts as we want him to, because right now he thinks he's already sprung the trap and is in the process of setting his own_.

Or at least, Charles hoped Stryker would see things that way. His entire plan hinged on Stryker playing by Charles' rules without ever realizing Charles was aware of the game.

Mystique was watching him again, staring at him like she'd never seen him before in her life. Charles calmly met her eye.

"Nothing personal," she said, "but you are one scary son of a bitch. Remind me never to get on your bad side."

Charles couldn't help but laugh at that.

"Will it make me less scary if I request your assistance in draining my urine bag?" he asked.

Mystique made a face, but she nodded, albeit a little reluctantly. Charles offered a sympathetic smile and then began walking her through the process.

~*~

Erik had spent a few nights here once, when he was younger--shortly after he'd killed two Nazis in a bar in Argentina, not too far from where Charles was currently infiltrating Stryker's base. It was here he'd first come across Charles' work. A book Charles had written on the subject of genetic mutation had occupied a space on the bookshelf--cleared now, most of the titles books the Nazis deemed worthy of escaping their fires--and Erik had wanted nothing to do with those books.

It hadn't outright theorized on the existence of mutants--it was written before Charles' manifesto--but there was enough subtext throughout the book to pique Erik's interest--and Erik still didn't know why he'd picked it up, why it had interested him enough to flip through it in the short space of time between killing two Nazis in a bar and putting a coin through Schmidt's head. A few weeks later, after Schmidt was dead and Erik's life's work had come to its conclusion, Erik had pulled the book from his bag--he also didn't know why he'd taken it with him--noted the author and had gone looking for more.

A week later he'd found Charles' manifesto and his life had changed.

It was funny how Charles kept doing that--especially now that he actually knew the man, Erik more changed by the last few weeks than the whole of his life so far.

Evening was approaching, the whole day vanishing before him and all Erik could think of was Charles. It wasn't just that he was worried for the other man--he was--or that he missed the other man--he did--but that this marked the first night he would crawl into bed and sleep on his own since Charles had come to Genosha. Erik wasn't looking forward to it--which, when he thought about it, was utterly ridiculous, because he had spent the whole of his life sleeping alone; years and years compared to a handful of nights, and Erik had no idea how it was that Charles had come to so fully occupy every corner of his life in so short a period of time.

Erik wasn't sure what he'd do if he lost Charles now.

But he was safe--he had to be safe--and was more than capable of taking care of himself; of accomplishing his part in the mission. And he had Mystique, whom Erik trusted more than anyone in the world--save perhaps Charles now. She was both competent and resourceful; she could without a doubt handle this situation.

"I don't want to talk about it, because I can't say I give a damn, but you look like you could use a drink."

Of all the people Erik had anticipated seeking him out, Wolverine was not one of them. Still, it stood to reason; Wolverine was a solitary creature and Erik had retreated outside to be alone. It was only natural their paths would cross.

Wolverine--and even as he thought it a Charles-like voice in his head said, _Logan_ \--had brought a bottle of something--the bottle was far too old to read its label anymore, the glass fogged with age and chipped around the neck and base with neglect. He held it out for Erik's inspection.

"Pretty sure it's rum, but I've tasted better turpentine, so who knows. It'll get you drunk."

Erik accepted the bottle, pausing with it midway to his mouth before he thought of Charles. He lowered the bottle, stared at it--and even from here he could smell the pungency of the liquor--and then handed it back.

"No thanks," he said. Logan shook his head in a suit yourself sort of way, and then chugged from the bottle.

"Wasn't nice, what your boyfriend did--giving me back those memories like that. But he got me out of Dodge and brought me a stogie, and now he's off saving the world, or some such shit, so I guess he's all right by me."

Erik shook his head, even as he found himself chuckling, just under his breath. "I'm sure Charles will appreciate you saying so."

Erik wasn't sure he did. He still didn't want Wolverine--Logan--anywhere near Charles, but fate and circumstance seemed to be charting Erik's course these days, so he was learning to tolerate things he might otherwise have found intolerable.

Like Logan deciding he wanted Erik's company. He settled himself next to Erik, sat on the steps of the Blackbird's extended ramp. Soft blue light from inside the plane illuminated the space, seeming a single point of light in otherwise unending darkness. Erik glanced to the south and east, seeking out Charles with his thoughts. There was no answer, and Erik was no telepath, so he bent his head to stare at his feet instead.

"Not that we're talking about it, but can I ask: If this guy means so much to you, why the fuck are you here and not tearing Stryker limb from limb?"

It was a hard question to answer, because Erik had been thinking the exact same thing; why exactly was he risking Charles when there was an easier solution?

"Because Charles wants us to be better men, and what Charles wants, Charles gets," Erik answered.

Logan grunted, patting absently at his pockets. His expression became forlorn. "You don't happen to have any cigars about, do ya?" he asked. Erik shook his head.

He was about to give Logan directions to the nearest town--because undoubtedly they would need supplies beyond what they'd brought and sending Logan to fetch them would at least keep the man occupied and out of trouble--but a spot of light in the distant horizon drew his attention. Erik stood abruptly, moving away from the Blackbird's light to watch her twin approach. His entire body tensed with anticipation.

It seemed an eternity before she was on the ground, Erik restless by the time the ramp lowered and Cyclops descended. He spotted Erik and moved to meet him.

"You look ready to invade a country," he said. Erik scowled.

"Anything?"

Cyclops shook his head. "It's quiet--a little too quiet given the day they've had. They haven't even bothered cleaning up the mess."

Erik frowned at that. He glanced to the Blackbird, then back towards the horizon, still hoping for some connection with Charles--this despite Charles telling him there wouldn't be.

"I need to see for myself," Erik said, already moving towards the bird. A hand on his shoulder stopped him. Magneto flared with indignation. He glared, letting his full rage settle over his features.

Cyclops looked unperturbed. "I appreciate that you're a little close to this situation, but we need to be a little less rash here. For one thing, we don't have anywhere near enough fuel to be flying to and from the base every time you feel the need to get in a look. For another, every time we do fly over to the base, we risk being spotted, and that will put the Professor in danger."

Something inside Magneto caved; Cyclops' logic too close to Charles' for him to do anything but relent. It was Erik who stepped back, releasing a breath even as he inclined his head.

"We're still doing daily runs," Erik said, because they had budgeted enough fuel for that, "and tomorrow I'll be going with." Cyclops nodded his agreement, undoubtedly thinking the compromise fair.

For the time being, there was little else Erik could do save attempt some sleep. He left Cyclops and Logan glaring at one another, and headed for the house.

~*~

Charles was trying desperately not to be sick--something that was undoubtedly making Mystique nervous, because she kept casting worried glances in his direction. _I'm fine_ , he kept telling her, but really, he wasn't. He was far, far from fine. Still, so long as he had his full mental capacity it wasn't a problem.

Charles tried to believe this, really he did.

A particularly violent wave of nausea had him sputtering over the steel bucket they'd provided for use as a toilet. It was already filled with the contents of Charles' bag, and Mystique had used it once, so the smell was atrocious. It made his nausea worse, Charles gagging despite his best efforts not to. This was of course exactly when the door swung open and two soldiers entered the room.

Mystique was on her feet instantly, stance widening as though she was preparing to fight. Charles swallowed against the bile in his throat--he hadn't eaten since that morning, which, while boding well for his bowels, wasn't doing his stomach any favours.

"Boss wants to see you," one of the guards said. They were each wearing a bracelet.

Charles could feel the link, now that he was looking for it--feel where it ebbed and pulsed, making it easy to slip through the cracks and maintain his own control. Charles eyed the guard wearing his. The other was wearing Mystique's and looked more than a little pleased about it.

"Just the cripple," he said, coming to the cage's door. "You and me, we're going to have some fun."

And that Charles couldn't allow, so he extended his telepathy even as he spoke into Mystique's mind. _I've got this_ , he said, twisting the man's thought--and there were times when Charles truly understood Erik's hatred of humanity--until it was an innocuous thing. Charles' guard would take Charles to see Stryker and Mystique's would sit meekly by the television set until his companion returned.

It was funny, feeling how the link from bracelet to collar was meant to work. Charles' guard ordered him from the cell, commanding Charles to follow him from the room. Charles felt the tiny thread of compulsion--the desire to do this man's bidding--even as it rippled and wavered, dissolving to dust with a single touch. Still, Charles knew what was expected of him, so he affected a neutral expression and followed the man from the room.

As he left, he heard the cage door lock, followed by the sound of the television set clicking to life.

He was brought to the same room they'd first taken him to, when Charles' collar had been nothing but an illusion, Mystique still wearing her false skin. Stryker was standing next to a bank of monitors, watching the room Charles had just left. Mystique sat, cross-legged on the room's only cot, while he guard cheered at the television set, the picture too grainy too see what he was watching.

"Lost his nerve, did he?" Stryker asked the guard wearing Charles' bracelet. He hadn't turned from the monitors, and did so now, arching an eyebrow. Charles brushed aside the tendril of suspicion.

"I don't know, Sir," Charles' guard answered.

"Well, I did warn him; she's probably full of disease. God knows what sorts of things these mutants carry." Even without seeing his mind, Charles would have known the disdain Stryker had for mutants. To him they were little more than parasites; a plague on humanity. They repulsed him; the thought of touching one, of fucking one, abhorrent to him.

Stryker turned to meet Charles' eye, simultaneously holding out his hand for Charles' bracelet. The guard removed it swiftly, handed it over, saluted and then left. Stryker ordered the others from the room. Throughout the proceedings, Charles sat silently, hands folded neatly on his lap. It took every ounce of his willpower to project the image of how he wanted to look--strong and confident, yet resigned to his fate--instead of letting Stryker see how he actually looked--shaky and green and on the verge of death

"I have a few options, and you're going to help me decide which is best," Stryker said once they were alone, and Charles could see from the shape of his thoughts that Stryker was more interested in Charles' reaction than Charles' opinion.

"It occurs to me that I have a very powerful telepath at my disposal, but more than that, I have a very powerful telepath's invention at my disposal. Tell me truthfully now; if I connected you to your Cerebro, could you seek out all the world's mutants and destroy them?"

"Yes," Charles said simply, because he could. "Although, if you're thinking of taking me back to New York, I should tell you that Cerebro is no longer there."

It was a risk, volunteering the information--even if it was a lie--but Charles suspected Stryker was too shocked by the news to question Charles' willingness to cooperate.

"And where exactly is Cerebro?" Stryker asked. Charles knew that he had little understanding of what exactly Cerebro was or what it did; only that it was a device Charles used to amplify his telepathy. It could be the size of a toaster for all Stryker knew.

"I had it dismantled and rebuilt inside Genosha's capitol compound," Charles said, steering the conversation back to Genosha--the goal was always Genosha.

Stryker huffed at that. "That seems a little strange. Why would you do that, unless..." He paused, looking vaguely shocked and more than a little disgusted. "Could it be that Magneto's not the only one stupid enough to have fallen in love?"

Charles didn't dignify the question with an answer--and technically Stryker hadn't asked him to. Still, Stryker took his silence as confirmation.

"That's sweet, really. I can hardly believe it, but it's sweet. You know, in some countries you would be seen as a criminal." Stryker's thoughts suggested that he did; for him the concept was almost as revolting as Charles' mutation.

"So would you," Charles said, "for what you're doing here."

"True enough; though not the ones that count. So our second option: I can keep you here and wait for your boyfriend to come looking--how long did he give you, by the way?"

"Three days," Charles answered, fighting his instinctual reluctance. This was not the direction Charles wanted Stryker's thoughts to go. He gave them a slight nudge.

"In three days then, when Magneto shows up, I can have you tear him apart, molecule by molecule--a fitting betrayal if I do say so myself. He'll bring his friends--he always does--and you'll destroy them too, and then Genosha, leaderless, defenseless, will fall. Perhaps I'll turn it into a penal colony for mutants. We need somewhere to ship you lot off to."

A minute ago Charles suspected Stryker would have sounded convinced, but now there was hesitation in his tone--creeping doubt that twisted itself into suspicion. Charles congratulated himself.

"Unless that's your plan--we sit here waiting while Magneto strengthens Genosha's defenses. Well, out with it; what is your contingency?"

Charles maintained a level look even as he lied. "I didn't have one. It didn't seem necessary; we thought this would work."

"Arrogance," Stryker boomed, shaking his head. His thoughts were running in circles now, his paranoia almost palpable. For the briefest of moments, Charles felt a stab of sympathy towards the man. This was his son's doing, Charles knew--the mutant had kept Stryker and his late wife locked in an illusion for the better part of ten years. It was no wonder Stryker was so utterly, utterly broken.

He would make no decision with Charles in the room, Charles realized, so Charles subtly suggested Stryker dismiss him, steering is thoughts in the direction of Genosha as he did so. It was like trying to tame a wild bear, Stryker both skittish and hostile, his mind railing against influence. Still, Charles planted the seed, enough to ease his worry when Stryker summoned back Charles' guard, transferred the bracelet, and then ordered Charles from the room.

Charles went quietly, hoping their meeting would be enough to set their course. Charles wasn't sure he'd have the strength to do this again tomorrow.


	24. Chapter 24

Morning dawned with a resounding crash, Erik startling bolt awake, already reaching for everything metal in the room. Had Stryker's men found them? Were they under attack? A second later Riptide's shriek, followed by a curse and another crash, gave a fuller picture of what had happened. Erik sank back into the mattress--lumpy and damp, the sheets musty from disuse--feeling a tendril of pity for the spider whose life had undoubtedly come to an end.

He hadn't slept--not really--though he had tried. He'd grown used to Charles' warmth; Charles' scent and despite having slept clutching one of Charles' previously worn sweaters, Erik hadn't been able to settle long enough for sleep to claim him.

Another large crash threatened the start of a headache, so Erik sat up in bed, shook the fog from his head, and decided to get up. From the sounds outside his window, Cyclops was already awake--already prepping the second Blackbird for its surveillance mission. He smelled the sharp tang of cigar smoke and wondered briefly when Logan had found the time to trek to the nearest town. Erik stood and moved to the window.

He drew aside sun-bleached curtains--worn paper thin--and blinked at the sudden onslaught of bright light. Logan was sitting on his upturned crate, smoking a fresh cigar, while Cyclopes and Destiny ran checks on the Blackbird. Erik let the curtain fall shut, quickly slipped back into his clothes and went out to meet them.

"How soon before she's ready to fly?" he asked. Destiny came to attention.

"She's ready now, Sir," she answered. Erik nodded, glancing to the sky.

"Fifteen minutes," he said. He'd turned back to the house, intending to see about finding something edible in the supply crates they'd brought from Genosha, when Logan stepped into his path.

"I'm tagging along," he said. Erik tensed, half anticipating a fight.

"Absolutely not," he said. Logan took a drag off his cigar and blew the smoke in Erik's direction. Erik seethed, took hold of Logan's skeleton and pushed him back several feet. Wolverine smiled.

"Your man was good enough to leave me a box of cigars, and that pretty much makes him a saint in my books, so I'm going with, like it or not."

Erik's confusion must have shown, because Cyclops ducked his head between them to say, "We found a box in the crates. Pretty sure Charles had it put there."

Logan was grinning now, preening like he'd won some sort of contest between them. Erik pushed down the wave of jealousy that threatened to distract him from his mission.

"Fine, but only if you keep your mouth shut," Erik said. He had better things to do with his morning than argue with Logan.

He took particular care to collide with the man on his way into the house. The sign of aggression seemed to please Logan to no end. Erik scowled. If it hadn't been for his promise to Charles, Erik would have torn the man apart, piece by adamantium piece.

Inside, the others were trying their best to avoid Riptide, who was still viciously attacking anything that seemed even remotely likely to move--there was an assortment of dead insects and a few crushed leaves on the countertops.

"We're heading out. I want a perimeter set up while we're gone," Erik said, glancing briefly between them. "Shadowcat's in charge, and try to keep Riptide away from the local wildlife."

Erik didn't stick around long enough to hear if anyone had any objections. Even if they did, he didn't particularly care. He found something to eat and, fifteen minutes later, climbed into the Blackbird, alongside Logan, Cyclops and Destiny.

Cyclops was piloting, Destiny navigating, so Erik headed to the back, strapped himself into one of the seats and tried not to think about the last time someone had restrained him. Logan was already lounging in his chair--it seemed to be the man's natural stance. He looked perfectly at ease held down by his harness, and Erik recalled something he'd read in Wolverine's file about special ops. This probably wasn't even the first time he'd sat inside a Blackbird. Erik glared in his direction. The plane's engines roared to life and the Blackbird started down the dirt road that led out of the villa--the one they were currently using as a runway. It made for a bumpy ride, but soon enough they were airborne, angling east and south, towards Charles.

"How close can this thing get?" Logan asked at some point. He had taken to extending and retracting his adamantium claws, wincing slightly every time he did. Twice Erik saw him glance to where the parachutes were secured above the drop hatch.

"The answer is no, and if I have to magnetize you to the plane, I will do it. We're getting in close enough to get a look--mostly by radar--but not close enough to be seen, and certainly not close enough for you to survive a jump."

"You'd be surprised what I can survive," Logan said, giving one of his toothy grins. Erik responded with one of his.

"No, actually, I wouldn't. Advanced healing; I've read your file, remember, and it's still not happening. We're not killing Stryker." The plane banked sharply as Erik said this, his harness tightening automatically. Erik breathed steadily against the sensation.

"You telling me that ain't what this guy deserves?"

Erik hesitated; it was only a moment, but enough that Logan noticed. He huffed a laugh.

"You're right; normally I'd agree with you, but lately I've been aiming for the bigger picture," which wasn't entirely true--lately he'd been aiming to keep Charles happy, "and killing Stryker isn't going to get us what we want."

"And what do you want?"

And that was the question, wasn't it, because Magneto knew the answer--mutant supremacy--and once upon a time Erik knew the answer--the safety and security of his people--but now; now Erik wasn't sure what he wanted. Certainly both of those things, but more than that, he wanted Charles, safe and by his side, and he was starting to suspect he was willing to do anything it took to achieve that goal--even if it meant letting a man who threatened everything he was and everything he wanted live.

"I want Stryker to spend the rest of his life rotting in a jail cell and know that it was mutants who put him there, legally, and without loopholes." And that seemed like a reasonable answer, Logan's expression turning thoughtful.

"He'd certainly hate that," Logan said, tipping his head. He relaxed back into his seat then, and didn't glance back to the parachutes.

Erik went back to ignoring him, the task becoming easier when the plane banked again and Cyclops announced they were coming overhead. Erik shot out of his chair--glad to be free of his harness--and headed into the cockpit to get a closer look. Destiny immediately moved from her seat to make room. She wore a pinched, worried expression on her face. Erik patted her shoulder; clearly he wasn't the only one worried about someone on the ground.

"They've been busy," Cyclops said, scanning the ground a second time. He whistled. "That's their entire fleet. They're mobilizing."

And that could only mean one thing, which meant they ought to hightail it back to the villa, pick up the others and get back to Genosha as fast as the birds could fly. Instead, Erik said, "Set us down, I want a closer look."

~*~

"Get up."

This was accompanied by a kick to the underside of the cot--Charles sprawled across it, where he'd managed to land after they'd tipped him from his chair last night. Mystique had shouted and cursed at them from the second cell, the one Charles had originally been confined to--apparently someone had deemed it inappropriate for Charles and Mystique to sleep in the same cell.

It stood to reason; each only had one cot and Charles, unable to sleep on a floor, would have hated himself for making Mystique do so.

He grunted, more from the pain of having a boot connect with his ribs--the cots were incredibly thin, little more than strips of cloth held between two metal bars--than from the ridiculously early hour--and that was only a guess, but it certainly felt like a ridiculously early hour. He was trying his best to ignore the continuation of his withdrawal.

Slowly, Charles managed to push himself up so that he was seated on the cot, legs hanging uselessly over the edge. His chair was across the cell--where the guard had moved it, and oh, Charles realized, seeking the man's thoughts, he wanted to see Charles drag himself to it.

 _Oh Erik, how I owe you so many apologies_ , Charles thought.

"Stryker wants to see you," the guard said--the same one from last night, though his companion was nowhere to be seen. A quick glance into Mystique's cell found her standing at the door, hands wrapped around the bars, watching the proceedings in Charles' cell with a tense jaw and narrow eyes.

"I'm looking forward to it," Charles said, reaching out to touch the guard's mind. His control was a little off--a combination of exhaustion, hunger, lingering withdrawal--and oh, God, how long was he meant to endure this?--and the collar. The guard stumbled a little, but raised no alarm, his thoughts remaining free of suspicion as he moved to collect the chair, holding it in place while Charles transferred into it. Charles winced, the movement driving pain across his ribs.

He brought Charles out of his cell, Charles giving Mystique a reassuring smile as he passed her cell.

He wasn't brought to the surveillance room this time, but rather what looked like a debriefing room, Stryker sitting at a long table with only one chair. The guard wheeled Charles to the foot of the table, and then crossed to the head to trade off Charles' bracelet. Stryker secured it to his wrist. He stood and moved to a green filing cabinet on Charles' right. From its top drawer, he pulled two glasses and a bottle of American whiskey. Charles let his hands curl around the arms of his chair.

Yesterday he'd gone out of his way to project himself as healthy and whole, but today he was incapable of extending the effort--never mind that Stryker had undoubtedly been watching Charles through the cameras, and however grainy the images may have been, it was hard to miss a man retching into a bucket.

Charles hadn't seen a mirror since arriving, but he had no doubt he looked awful--his skin felt sallow and his eyes burned with lack of moisture. His hair was starting to grow back and it itched painfully. He barely had the energy to remain upright in his chair, and he was certain the slump of his body made him look as feeble as he felt.

"I was wondering about the Diazepam--not in your name, which is interesting--but I've seen this before and I've heard it can be bad. I thought I might offer my assistance."

Charles tensed, even as he watched Stryker uncap the bottle and pour a finger's worth into the tumbler. His hands, which he'd managed to get steady on the trip here, began shaking in earnest.

Stryker pushed the glass towards him. "All I ask in return is a straight answer. You have to give me one anyway, but I don't trust you not to talk your way around my questions."

Charles debated, unable to take his eyes off the glass. On the one hand, he was entering his third day of withdrawal--nearing the end if Linda was to be believed, but also the worst of it--and having a drink would undoubtedly help him focus his attention on what had to be done. On the other hand, Charles was terrified of what would happen if he used the excuse. Mostly, though, he was trying not to picture the look of disappointment on Erik's face when he learned of it--which was odd considering Erik had never been anything but entirely supportive and understanding.

Still, it was getting more and more impossible to deny what he was, and he really, really didn't want to be that man.

"I'm fine," Charles said, relief swelling in his chest even as he tore his gaze from the glass. He felt like he'd passed some sort of test.

Stryker shrugged, perched on the table at Charles' side, and left the glass where it sat.

"I'm still going to ask my question. If that's not enough incentive, perhaps we can arrange a trade."

Charles' gaze narrowed at that. He calmly met Stryker's eye and raised an eyebrow.

Stryker smiled. "You answer my question honestly, and without prevarication, and I won't send my men in to kill Ms. Darkholme."

Charles' jaw clenched at that--it was hardly a trade, more like blackmail. It left it precariously little choice, unless he wanted to use the brunt of his telepathy, and he wasn't sure he had it in him to do it subtly enough to escape notice. He nodded.

"Excellent. I knew you'd see things my way. Here's my question: If I can get you to Genosha, can you get me and my men into the capitol compound--into Cerebro--without notice?"

And Charles should have known that was Stryker's interest. He may have had his collars, but they weren't ready--a handful of prototypes not enough for Charles' telepathy to override Stryker's natural reluctance and paranoia--but Cerebro offered him a different path; a better path. Charles saw no reason to lie. It still got Stryker to Genosha.

"It depends on how many men. Two-hundred? No. Twenty? Maybe. A dozen? Certainly. But then if you're looking to have me use Cerebro, my concentration would need to shift--especially if you want me to do something global--that requires the full of my attention. Anyone locked inside Cerebro would be secure, but anyone outside would automatically lose my protection."

"And how many can fit inside Cerebro?"

Now Charles did see the need to lie. "Half a dozen at best," he said.

Stryker paused to consider this, his thumb absently tapping against the table. The vibration of it caused the whiskey in Charles'--and Charles hated that he thought of it as his--glass to ripple. The sight was almost as hypnotic as the sound.

"Then I suggest you prepare for a little journey," Stryker eventually said, rising. He reached towards the side of the table and depressed a silver button. With some effort, Charles sat forward in his chair. It brought the scent of liquor to his nose.

"Can I make a request?" he asked. Stryker glanced over, seeming amused by the question. He nodded. "Something to eat wouldn't go amiss."

Stryker didn't have time to answer before the door slid open, the same guard that brought Charles here appearing in the doorway. He saluted, and then held out his hand for Charles' bracelet.

"Return Mr. Xavier to his cell, please, and ensure that he and Ms. Darkholme get something to eat. Then, hose them both down," Stryker said. He returned his attention to Charles. "Mr. Xavier, at least, is starting to smell," he said, meeting Charles' eye.

The solider saluted a second time, attached the bracelet to his wrist, and then came forward to gather Charles' chair. It took all of Charles' concentration to slip into Stryker's thoughts--to seek out the full scope of his plans. Stryker's mind was a worse maze than Erik's, trip wires and land mines blocking Charles at every turn, but eventually he found what he was looking for.

He waited until he got back to his cell to smile, face turned away from the cameras. The odds were starting to look in their favour. Surreptitiously, Charles made eye contact with Mystique, giving a slight nod that automatically drained her tension. She moved from her place against the bars--where she'd undoubtedly stood, awaiting Charles' return--and perched on the edge of her cot. There was no time for conversation--not even telepathically--the door to the room opening a moment later, the scent of food rolling Charles' stomach. Mystique licked her lips appreciatively.

~*~

Even without trying, he could feel every piece of metal within a hundred yards of where they were crouched--huddled behind one of the destroyed tanks they'd taken out yesterday morning. If Erik had wanted to, he could have called it all to life and destroyed everything and everyone in the vicinity--he could have pulled the entire base from the mountainside, crumpled its steel frame like a discarded soda can.

Except doing so would have undoubtedly killed Charles, so Erik stayed his hand.

They were still too far away to make out anything happening around the base, save a general flurry of activity--soldiers obediently going about their work, loading supplies into two Hercules aircraft that sat at the start of a seemingly endless runway. Cyclops, his visor equipped with binoculars, had already scanned the area, and had found no trace of Charles. Did that mean Charles was still inside somewhere? Was this Charles' doing? Were they heading to Genosha? Was Charles all right?

Erik wasn't used to worry--wasn't used to this blinding terror that clenched in his chest and left him choking around too little air. He didn't want to sit here and watch. He didn't want to get back in the Blackbird and return to Ecuador. He didn't want to leave this place until Charles was safely by his side and if that meant storming the base right now, just the four of them, and ripping Charles out then so be it.

"Whatever you're thinking, don't," Cyclops warned. He'd been watching Erik closely and now curled a restraining hand around Erik's arm. Magneto battled his way to the surface, features turning to stone as he turned to glare at Cyclops' hand.

"Do not presume to order me," Magneto said. On his other side, Destiny inhaled sharply.

"Magneto, we go in there, we're going to get Charles and Mystique killed, and I know you don't want that."

She was right he didn't, but there was still a good chance that wouldn't happen--a good chance Erik could make it through in time. Certainly now, filled with this awesome power, he was unstoppable. If he wanted to, he could stop the earth turning on its axis.

"Don't know about you two, but I'm with Mags here," Logan said, his claws coming out then, the metal singing to Erik even louder than the surrounding tanks and cars and planes. To Erik, he said, "I say we go in, gut Stryker, get your boy and then burn the place to the ground."

And oh, that sounded like such a wonderful idea. Magneto smiled, feeling a sudden kinship with Wolverine.

Destiny and Cyclops exchanged looks, their resolve hardening. Magneto cast around for something to tear apart--to make into bindings to secure them in place, so that they didn't interfere with...

 _Erik, love, you're being exceptionally loud with your thoughts._

Erik froze, his whole world compressing to a single voice, confined within his head, but undoubtedly Charles.

 _Charles?_ he still asked.

 _Also, you really shouldn't be here. Not only is this not part of the plan, but it also puts the plan at risk--never mind that you're putting yourself at risk. Honestly; is three days really too much to ask?_

Erik could feel Charles' exasperation. He let himself break out into a grin, knowing he was thoroughly confusing Cyclops and Destiny--even Logan was looking at him askew, not quite sure what to make of Erik's sudden distraction.

 _Tell me you're all right_ , Erik thought.

 _I'm fed, bathed_ , and there was far too much irony in the way Charles said bathed, _and about to be en route to Genosha. I would suggest you do the same._

Erik was laughing now, just under his breath, smile threatening to take over his entire face even as his eyes began to water.

 _What do you need?_ Erik asked, bringing his thumb to wipe aside threatened tears.

 _Get to Genosha, and then get Emma connected to Cerebro. She needs to contact the Seychelles government. Stryker's landing his main force at the base, intending to claim it as a training exercise. We need to ensure they are detained after they arrive, by any means necessary._

The rest of Charles plan was vastly different from his original, and he sounded hurried--almost panicked--as he told it. Erik suspected he was probably worried about someone overhearing, so he did his best not to interrupt or ask too many question.

When Charles had finished, he nodded, even though Charles couldn't see him. Destiny, who had clued in to what was going on, leaned forward excitedly. Erik met her eye and then asked, _Is Mystique all right?_

 _She's fine, and a remarkable woman--I can see why you entrust her with so much_.

A swell of pride filled Erik upon hearing the words. To Destiny, he said, "She's fine." Destiny instantly relaxed. The curse of Destiny's gift was that she couldn't choose what to foresee--she couldn't look ahead and determine Mystique's fate; only wait until if and when it was presented to her.

By now Cyclops had clued in to what was going on. "He's talking to Charles right now," he told Logan, who looked lost--though Erik suspected he was just bored. He grunted, sounding oddly disappointed. Erik turned his attention back to Charles, relishing the warm weight in his head.

 _Please be careful, and stay safe_ , Erik thought, still wanting to storm the base and sweep Charles into his arms, though the need had lessened considerably now that he knew Charles was safe.

 _I will. Please do the same_ , Charles answered, and then he was gone, Erik left feeling hollow and empty. He cast another glance around the side of the tank, the planes almost loaded now. He turned back to the others.

"We need to get back to Genosha, immediately," he said. Aside from a longing glance that Logan cast back towards the base, there were no objections.

~*~

Contacting Erik had been a risk, certainly, but Charles could hardly have avoided it--the second Erik had come into range Charles had sensed him, the man practically screaming for Charles' attention. He had known Erik's impatience would likely end up a problem; he only hoped that his reassurance had calmed Erik enough for him to see this through to the end.

He felt bad lying to Erik--making him think Charles was in better shape than he actually was--but if Erik had known Charles had barely managed to keep down the runny eggs and dry toast he'd just eaten, or that the urine he'd just drained from his bag had been dark and concentrated--or that there had been nowhere near as much as there should have been, which Charles was really hoping was just a by-product of having been given next to nothing to drink--then he probably wouldn't have agreed to return to Genosha to carry out Charles' instructions.

"Charles," Mystique said, crouching at his side, blocking Charles from the camera because he was currently incapable of using his telepathy without a physical crutch, and that meant bringing his fingers to his temple, something he doubted Stryker would overlook.

"I'm all right," Charles said. Mystique looked doubtful, so Charles added, "And Destiny sends her regards."

Mystique flushed at that, but she still didn't look appeased. Her red hair hung damp around her shoulders, the ends still dripping from their impromptu shower--in actuality they'd been locked back in the same cell and had a firehouse turned on them, the water icy cold and stinking strongly of chlorine.

They hadn't even given Charles a chance to remove his clothes. They clung to him now, chilling him to the bone. It certainly wasn't helping the shaking, which seemed to have travelled from his hands, up his arms and into his torso.

"All we have to do is get to Genosha. A few more hours; I promise," Charles said. Mystique nodded.

There was little more to say on the subject, so Charles sunk down in his chair, Mystique leaving momentarily to retrieve the thin blanket from the cot. When she returned, she draped it over Charles' legs. Charles offered her a grateful smile, to which she shrugged.

"You're practically my brother in law now," she said. Charles' smile grew delighted.

It was touching how quickly Erik's friends--Erik's family--had accepted him into their fold. He reached out to tuck a stray strand of Mystique's damp hair behind her ear, trying to convey how much her acceptance meant to him--how much it undoubtedly meant to Erik. She rolled her eyes, obviously discomforted by the gesture, though her thoughts suggested she was secretly pleased.

"I hate to interrupt such a touching moment." Stryker's arrival instantly dispelled the camaraderie between them, Mystique standing swiftly, coming into a defensive stance. She placed her body directly between Stryker and Charles. Charles tutted and wheeled around her. He paused in front of the door, calmly waiting for Stryker to release them.

"I'm tempted to leave her here," he said. "Give the men I leave behind something to play with."

Charles' expression grew dark, even as he fought not to lash out, to cripple Stryker's mind with a single blow--and he was starting to want that, oh how he was starting to want that. Instead he curled his hands into fists, feeling his nails dig half-moons into his palms.

"But I have a feeling you'll be a little more cooperative if she comes along," Stryker said, clearly a question.

Charles nodded. "She comes with us, untouched and unharmed, and I will cooperate."

If Stryker had been thinking--if Charles hadn't been manipulating his thoughts--then he likely would have realized the ridiculousness of that sentence. Stryker was expecting him to kill every mutant on the planet, including Mystique; Charles' willingness to cooperate for a temporary extension of her life should have raised several red warning flags. Keeping those flags from appearing was taking a good deal of Charles' strength. It probably didn't bode well for what he had planned next.

"Very well," Stryker said, and then, to one of his soldiers, "Secure the rest of the baggage."

It was an incredibly frustrating thing being shot with a tranquilizer dart twice inside a twenty-four hour period. Charles struggled against the pull of unconsciousness, even knowing it was futile. Charles' last thought, as darkness claimed him, was that he would at least be spared the tedium of the flight.

 

 _Interlude_

Emma stared at Hank McCoy in absolute horror. Clearly the man had lost his mind. She shook her head, blonde tresses--which she was quite fond of, thank you very much--flipping over her shoulders.

"You are not shaving my head," she said. Hank wrung his hands.

"I still haven't figured out what's interfering with the connection, but removing Charles' hair seemed to work, so I suspect it will work for you, too."

Emma let her gaze turn to ice. She knew the effect it would have even before Hank stepped back, suddenly uncertain.

"You are not shaving my head, and we are not discussing this again."

Emma didn't give Hank a chance to offer a new argument--or even rehash an old one--she strode from the room, Cerebro making her slightly claustrophobic anyway. How Charles tolerated the thing she had no idea; especially now that it had cost him his hair--Charles had had such lovely hair.

She intended to return to her office. The carpenters were arriving today to fit a new door, this one custom made and entirely wood--she'd like to see Erik try to storm his way into her office now--but she only made it as far as the lifts before Jubilee was running towards her, hands outstretched as if she actually intended to make physical contact. Emma side-stepped the girl, recoiling at the thought--she was fairly certain those gloves were polyester, after all.

"Sorry, sorry; it's just a message came from Magneto, over the wire." She handed over a slip of paper, printed in that strange encoding that the Blackbird's central computer system tended to use. Emma stared at it, feeling her eyes begin to cross.

They were all supposed to have memorized the encryption, but Emma hadn't bothered--she had far more important things to worry about.

"Can you give me the gist," she said, handing it back to Jubilee. Jubilee looked thrilled by the prospect. She accepted the paper gladly, squared her shoulders and began to read.

"Blackbirds en route. ETA 3 hours, 47 minutes," here Jubilee paused, "except, this was received thirty-eight minutes ago, so now its 3 hours and..." she calculated, "3 hours and 9 minutes." She seemed ridiculously pleased when Emma didn't correct her. Emma made a mental note never to allow this woman to have anything to do with the Brotherhood's books.

"Stryker en route to Seychelles. Must contact government and have them detain Stryker's forces indefinitely. Stryker to be allowed to continue on to Genosha with squadron. Make use of Cerebro. Authorized to use any means necessary." Emma couldn't help but smile at that, even as she ran a hand through her hair. Oh she hated Erik, she really, really did. The man had probably planned this.

Jubilee was looking at Emma expectantly, so Emma snatched the transmission from her hand and shooed her on her way. Then she turned back the way she had come--lamenting having to postpone selecting her new door--and headed back to Cerebro.

Hank glanced up excitedly as she entered. "Please tell me you've found a solution," she said.

Hank nodded enthusiastically. "I have an idea, although I will need to cover your head in ultrasound gel."

Emma blanched at that. She was certain her expression must have conveyed her horror--her lip curled, even as her nose wrinkled--because Hank held up his hands in a gesture of surrender.

"Would it help if I mentioned it's composed largely of propylene glycol, which is very moisturizing? You could think of it as an exotic spa treatment."

Emma wasn't convinced, but if it meant not having to shave off her hair, she would take the option. Hank motioned her to the stool he'd placed beside the interface--and if Emma was going to continue using this infernal machine, she was going to order something far more comfortable than a three-legged wooden stool.

She sat gingerly upon, taking a moment to set aside the stole she wore--and oh, her silk blouse was likely going to be ruined; she very much doubted ultrasound gel's moisturizing properties were meant to be applied to silk. She watched with narrowed eyes as Hank approached, a tube of something--the gel, Emma presumed--held in his outstretched hand. He seemed far too cheerful, and Emma made a mental note to give him a night of bad dreams in retaliation.

He arrived at her side and without warning--and quite unceremoniously, Emma thought--poured the gel onto her head. It dripped down her forehead, cold slimy viscous stuff that she suspected she would never feel clean from. She could feel a tendril of it sliding down her neck--under the collar of her blouse and oh, she was wearing her La Perla lingerie. This was almost a crime against nature.

"That ought to do it," Hank announced, placing that awkward, god-awful helmet on her head--it mashed the gel further into her hair, streaks of it trailing behind her ears now. Emma shuddered, shoulders drawing up as she was forced to endure the worst experience of her...

Oh.

In all the years she had exercised her telepathy, she had never experienced this. It was like breathing pure oxygen after a lifetime of car exhaust. She felt infinitely light--was infinitely light, she realized, floating from her body, her mind reaching out in so many directions at once. Was this what it felt like to be Charles? She couldn't imagine--he was so much more powerful than she--but even if it was only a fraction, it was wonderful. Emma laughed, delighted, letting her mind stretch further still, until the whole of the island sat at her fingertips. She extended beyond Genosha's borders, seeking out her neighbours. It was like trailing her fingertips through pleasantly warm water. She had never felt so pure--so powerful. She basked in it, even as she set about executing Magneto's instructions.

This was an experience she wanted to continue indefinitely. She understood immediately why Charles had been willing to shave his head for it. She suspected she would gladly do the same.

It was so easy to address the Seychelles government through Cerebro, to bend their will to hers. The process took next to no time at all, and then she was free to drift, to explore; to reach across the globe and touch thousands of minds, all of them calling out for her attention. Erik would be home in a little under three hours, but until then, Emma was lost to Cerebro's siren song.


	25. Chapter 25

As soon as the Blackbirds had landed and were secured, Erik was moving. He disembarked from the plane, barking orders as he crossed the hanger to the wide bay doors that connected it to the capitol compound.

Behind him, his fellow mutants scrambled to get the planes refueled and unloaded. Only Logan sat idle, staring at the hanger like it was something out of a nightmare. Exasperated, Erik turned to a waiting Jubilee and said, "Get him a room somewhere, out of sight, please."

That seemed to get Logan's attention. He crossed the room to where they stood, already shaking his head. "That ain't gonna happen, bub. I'm sticking with you till we get this squared away, then I'm getting the fuck out of Dodge, again. I ain't trading one army base for another."

Had it not been for Logan's willingness to back Erik when he'd wanted to storm Stryker's base, he likely would have hauled Logan off and locked him away somewhere secure--another cage, perhaps. Instead he nodded, waving Jubilee aside. He led Logan out of the hanger and into the tunnel that ran between the lifts and the hanger--a dark, dank space that smelled sharply of mould and always, always left Erik feeling claustrophobic. It reminded him of the gas chambers Schmidt had often forced him to help clear. More times than Erik could count he had had to help haul the body of someone he had once known onto a cart, destined for an unmarked, mass grave.

"So this is Genosha," Logan said as they walked, glancing around. He sounded unimpressed. Erik didn't dignify the comment with an answer.

Instead he led them up the lifts and out onto the main floor, turning towards Cerebro, where, if Jubilee was to be believed, Emma was still holed up. When they arrived outside the door, Erik rapped his knuckles against the metal three times. If he needed to, he could always pull the door off its hinges, but he didn't particularly like the idea of destroying Charles' machine, so instead he stood patiently and waited.

"This is what your boy used to find me?" Logan asked, looking suddenly interested.

"It's called Cerebro. It amplifies telepathic brain waves," Erik said, not willing to elaborate. He still didn't entirely trust Logan--and probably wouldn't until the man took the Brotherhood's vow and pledged his allegiance--something Erik couldn't see happening any time soon.

Several long minutes passed before the door to Cerebro finally slid open, Hank poking his head outside. His eyes grew wide when he saw who it was.

"Is Charles with you? Is he all right?"

"Charles isn't with me, but he's on his way, and he's fine," Erik answered, brushing past Hank to get inside.

He immediately spotted Emma--removing Cerebro's helmet, her hair slick with oily gel. Erik snorted a laugh.

"Laugh all you want, but it was worth it," Emma said, setting the helmet down on a stool and brushing her fingers reverently over its protruding wires.

Erik shook his head. "Is it at least done?" he asked.

Emma nodded. "They'll allow Stryker to proceed, and then step in to detain Stryker's forces. It might end up starting a war, but..." She shrugged.

"They won't do anything without Stryker's orders, and Stryker won't be around to give them." Erik tried to sound more confident than he felt. He glanced again to Emma's hair. "You should probably go clean up. Charles should be arriving within the next few hours and we're going to need you."

He didn't elaborate beyond that, letting Emma slip into his mind to see the plan for herself. She seemed marginally taken aback, but nodded, a light smile touching her face. She said nothing further, giving Logan a brief, unimpressed glance before slipping from the room, head held high and hips swaying, even as she dripped goop onto her shoulders.

"So what now," Logan asked once she was gone. Erik smiled.

"Now we wait for Charles."

~*~

When Charles woke they were in The Republic of Seychelles and Charles was lying sprawled across an army barrack style bunk. Mystique was sitting on the floor next to the bed, leaned against it, knees drawn to her chest. Her thoughts were coloured with anticipation and uncertainty. Charles coughed, his chest constricting painfully, a sharp stab of pain radiating through his ribs.

Mystique immediately turned at the sound, seeking out Charles' eyes and giving him a scrutinizing look. She seemed relieved by what she found. "I hate it when you're unconscious," she said.

Charles mustered a sympathetic look, and then tried to push himself into a seated position. It didn't work, Mystique automatically putting her hands beneath his arms and helping to haul him upright. Charles grunted in pain. Mystique reached for a flask and pressed it into Charles' hand.

"It's only water," she said when Charles' hesitated. Charles drank greedily then, grateful for the moisture. When he was done, he felt marginally better--marginal being a relative term.

"I'm all right," he said, more to reassure himself than her. He sounded awful, but Mystique still nodded, confidence surging at his words. Like most of Erik's Brotherhood, she too thought him capable of seemingly anything. It wouldn't do to disappoint her--never mind the consequences should he fail--so Charles sat a little straighter and tried to will his mind to clear. When he was certain moving wouldn't cause him to either pass out or vomit, he nodded to his chair.

Mystique retrieved it without comment, holding it steady while Charles transferred into it--an awkward, painful process. He felt a little better secured in its embrace, though he still felt stretched too thin--a pale shadow of his former self. The tranquilizers were still coursing in his bloodstream, making him feel heavy and sluggish, and he'd had nowhere near enough to eat and drink over the past few days. There was a largish bruise forming on his torso--from where he'd been kicked that morning--and Charles was fairly certain his catheter site was heading for that infection Linda had warned about.

All of this was on top of the continued withdrawal, made worse by his current circumstances. Charles exhaled steadily against a rattle in his chest and tried to run his fingers through his hair--only to be reminded that his head was now nothing but stubble. The sensation against his hands made him laugh, albeit somewhat weakly. Mystique offered a wry grin.

The sound of activity floated in through the propped open door, so Charles wheeled himself towards it, Mystique his constant shadow. A quick glance outside told him that they were likely being housed in an officer's barracks. A guard stood outside the door. He was wearing a bracelet, and since Charles couldn't feel a link, he could only assume it belonged to Mystique. The guard turned as soon as he sensed her approaching the door.

"Good morning, or rather, evening, is it?" Charles asked. He had no idea how long the flight had lasted, and that, combined with the time change, had left him slightly out of sorts.

The guard--no one Charles recognized, though his thoughts suggested he felt himself above guarding mutant slaves--didn't reply, but he did turn around again and reach for the telephone that was secured to the wall.

"They're awake," he said into the receiver. Charles waited until the man had hung up to nod in his direction; then he wheeled himself back into the room, content to wait.

Ten minutes later, Stryker appeared in the doorway. He gave them each an appraising look.

"I think we might be ready," he said before Charles could get in a word. He turned on his heel and left the room. He was instantly replaced by the guard wearing Mystique's bracelet.

"Just him," he said when Mystique made to move forward. Her thoughts flared with panic. Charles didn't hesitate in slipping into the guard's mind, skimming past great pools of hatred and fear until he found what he was looking for.

 _It's fine_ , Charles spoke into Mystique's mind. _They only mean to keep you detained--a safeguard against my betrayal--but I've implanted instructions for this man to remove your collar as soon as the Seychelles army arrives to detain them. Once you're free, you'll need to get the others out. I can sense at least three other collared mutants Stryker has brought with him._

There were more back at the base--and from what he'd gleaned from Stryker's thoughts, Stryker had dozens secured away in various locations. Finding and freeing them would be one of their first orders of business after this was over.

Nothing changed in Mystique's stance or her facial expression, but Charles distinctly heard her acknowledge the order. At Charles gesture, she stepped back from the door, returned to the bunk, at sat down upon it. As an afterthought, Charles implanted an instruction in the guard's mind to ensure she came to no harm while in his custody.

He gave her a brief smile, hoping to convey his confidence in her abilities, and then wheeled himself out into the hall, following the guard to the hall's next juncture, where a man wearing Charles' bracelet--and it really was alarming to feel the link grow stronger until Charles could pinpoint exactly who supposedly controlled his fate--took over.

He brought Charles down a long hall and through a double set of doors, out into the pale early evening sun. The Seychelles training base, Charles could see now, sat on the coast, facing east. A series of hanger-like buildings stretched out in a row along the coastline, while huge stretches of tarmac turned every available inch of space into landing strips. One the far side of the tarmac, between the building they'd just exited--one of the few multi-storied permanent buildings on the base--and the closest hanger building, a heavily armed, military looking transport helicopter sat awaiting departure. It was towards this helicopter that Charles' guard steered his chair.

Stryker was already waiting, standing beside the helicopter. He had his helmet--almost an exact duplicate of Erik's, tucked beneath his arm. Charles tried not to let his alarm show. Four other men--soldiers, all with special ops insignias affixed to their shoulders, sat inside the beast, their military fatigues worn with use--these were men who had seen service. Charles felt out of place in his wrinkle-dried cardigan and corduroy trousers.

At a gesture from Stryker, two of the men jumped down and between them grabbed Charles' chair, lifting it easily into the helicopter. Charles felt exposed, wishing then for Erik and his powers--he had never minded Erik floating him past obstacles. As soon as he was secured, they climbed back into the helicopter, along with Charles' guard, who handed his bracelet to Stryker.

Including the pilot and Charles, that made eight--two more than Charles had said he could manage. Stryker was calling his bluff.

Charles was used to flying--had flown often before his paralysis and had now had the pleasure of having travelled by both Blackbird and Hercules--but a helicopter was a different beast entirely. The vibrations from the rotors tore through Charles' body, making him both nauseous and dizzy. His body hurt--in places he wasn't used to it hurting--like his groin and the centre of his chest--the turbulence only serving to worsen the pain. Stryker had said it would be close to a forty minute flight. Charles grit his teeth and tried very hard to endure it as best as he could.

They'd given him ear muffs to block out the noise, but unlike his companions, his weren't wired for communication, so he couldn't eavesdrop on the conversation Stryker was having with the soldier Charles assumed was his second in command. He passed the first thirty minutes of the flight in silence, ignored and left to his own devices. Charles spent the time trying not to stare at Stryker's helmet, where is sat on the bench at his side.

Just as Genosha appeared on the horizon--Charles having forced his gaze away from the helmet, turning to stare out the open gunner doors, watching as Genosha's tiny dot grew in size--Stryker slid from his seat and came to lean over Charles' chair. He reached out to remove one of Charles' ear muffs, the sound of the helicopter becoming deafening. Charles flinched and tried to recoil--from both the sound and the wet warmth of Stryker's breath.

"Anyone sees our approach or our landing, I make a radio call, and Ms. Darkholme dies," Stryker shouted into his ear.

There was little Charles could do save nod, though he did use the opportunity to slip into Stryker's mind and twist his thoughts away from the helmet--if Charles was lucky, Stryker would forget it on the helicopter, an absent minded twist of fate.

He did the same with the other men, so that no one thought to point it out, and then closed his eyes and let his telepathy stretch out, masking their approach from anyone who thought to turn a curious eye in their direction. His cooperation had nothing to do with Stryker's threat--Mystique would undoubtedly be free by now--but this was all according to plan. It took relatively little effort on Charles' part--Erik would have already ordered the Brotherhood and all its members to studiously ignore the approach and landing of an unauthorized helicopter. He needed only to seek out those few civilians who were drawn to the sound--though most were so used to the Brotherhood's equipment coming and going that they paid little heed to a solitary helicopter--and turn their minds to other things.

Stryker's pilot flew the bird towards the capitol compound, where a helicopter landing pad sat atop the tallest tower. That bit of intelligence had been Charles' doing, Stryker having asked the best way to get into the compound, and since traversing the streets would have taken far too much of Charles' concentration, he had recommended the helicopter--besides, it was either that or a boat, and Charles wasn't sure he could have handled dealing with sea sickness on top of everything right now.

Masking the helicopter's landing would have been a challenging feat, had Charles actually tried to do so. Still, he had a part to play, so Charles closed his eyes, letting artificial strain show on his features. It was little work to let his telepathy float him into the compound; to seek out Erik and say, _We've arrived_.

Since no one seemed to be questioning--or even noticing--their arrival, Stryker's thoughts spiked with pleasure and the inevitable thrill of victory. The bird hit the ground and Stryker jumped out, weapon drawn as he scanned the rooftop landing pad. He remained tense even upon finding it empty. Charles' guard and two of the special ops boys climbed out as well, the remaining two staying to help Charles with his chair. They brought him out of the helicopter and set him on the ground, the downwind from the still spinning rotor blades beating fiercely against them.

Stryker signalled to the pilot, and he ascended into the air, flying back out the way he had come. Charles frowned, but wasn't disappointed--his job was far easier if he didn't have to worry about hiding the helicopter from anyone who might breach his instructions. Besides, Stryker's helmet was still sitting on that helicopter, now safely over the city and on its way off the island.

"Now you get us inside," Stryker said, gesturing for Charles to lead the way.

Despite knowing what was to come--and feeling quite confident about their chances of pulling it off--Charles still felt a surge of adrenalin. Charles used it to propel himself forward, his current ailments forgotten in the excitement of the moment. Was this how Erik felt, Charles wondered, whenever he went out on a mission? If so, Charles could see the allure. For the first time in days everything slipped away--his fatigue, his hunger, his pain, even his withdrawal--Charles operating entirely on epinephrine.

He brought them to the rooftop door--a narrow jut of a thing that opened into a staircase, the stairs leading down to the compound's eighth level. From there they could catch a lift, but until then, someone was going to need to carry his chair.

Without having to ask, the same two men who'd brought him out of the helicopter hoisted him between them and began the descent. Charles gave directions verbally, saying, "the next level," and, "second door and then to the right." Only once they were on solid, horizontal ground did the men place Charles back on the floor. He shook off his vertigo and started wheeling himself towards the lift.

 _Five minutes_ , he told Erik, thinking of all the ways this could go wrong. He was using his telepathy now, to ensure their path was clear, but Erik would have already arranged for the halls to be empty, so it required very little effort. Still, what little energy it required was slowly sapping Charles of the scant strength he had remaining--his keyed up hormonal state notwithstanding. There was a very good chance he was going to end this mission by collapsing in a heap at Erik's feet.

The lifts brought them to the main floor--and they were never designed to hold seven men, one of whom was in a wheelchair, space non-existent once they were crammed inside. The ride seemed to last an eternity, Charles holding his breath until they arrived.

 _A few more yards_ , Charles thought, mostly to himself, as he wheeled out of the lifts and then turned in the direction of Cerebro. It was a little farther than that, but saying it helped. Charles was still conscious--still vibrating with excitement and anxiety and anticipation--when they reached Cerebro's vaulted doors; though his vision was beginning to go grey around the edges.

Cerebro's door stood open, the vast expanse of Cerebro's sphere empty. Stryker signalled to his men, who immediately took defensive positions--they'd been tense the entire journey through the halls, half expecting an attack, but now they seemed poised on the edge of battle. Stryker motioned Charles through the doors first.

He wheeled himself inside.

Stryker followed behind, weapon drawn and pointed at Charles' head.

His men followed a second behind, clearing Cerebro with an efficiency that Charles couldn't help but admire--it was impressive, certainly. No one said anything until Stryker's second in command raised a fist; then the men came into formation at Stryker's flank, Stryker lowering his weapon, glancing around the room, and then back down to Charles.

"Looks to me like we could have fit a little more than half a dozen men," Stryker said. Charles offered an apologetic shrug.

"It always seems smaller when I'm connected."

Stryker's eyes narrowed, but he didn't comment, instead gesturing to Cerebro's helmet--which sparked a reminder in his thoughts that Charles had to chase away.

"How does it work?" Stryker asked. Charles nodded to the door.

"That has to be sealed, but you can remain inside. It's harmless," Charles said. Stryker looked skeptical, but his thoughts suggested that the threat to Mystique was enough to keep Charles in line. He nodded to one of his soldiers, who immediately moved to the door and secured it.

As soon as he had done so, Charles reached out with his telepathy, claiming each of Stryker's five men, the strain of it blurring his vision even as the room seemed to spin. Charles fought against it, managing to force all of Stryker's men to step forward into a line, bend and place their weapons on the ground, and then step back several paces to sink to their knees. Stryker tensed. Charles swallowed a mouthful of bile. He could feel Erik on the periphery of his awareness, straining against the need to rush to Charles' side.

 _Not yet_ , he thought, a little desperately.

"What are you doing? I order you to release them," Stryker said, obviously still under the impression that Charles' collar worked. Charles smiled, and then calmly took control of Stryker's body, forcing him to set his weapon on the ground.

"Piece of advice, Mr. Stryker; never piss off an omega level telepath, especially when the collars you've designed to control them don't actually work."

Charles smiled then, relishing the look of confusion--a look that quickly shifted to fear--that appeared on Stryker's face. _Now_ , he thought, and Emma released the illusion she had constructed to hide the Brotherhood's presence, seven mutants appearing suddenly not ten feet from where Stryker was standing, Stryker still frozen neatly in place. At Emma's side, Erik struggled against her hold, so Charles nodded his head and Emma released him, Erik surging forward the second he was free, ignoring Stryker entirely to fall to his knees in front of Charles' chair.

"Are you hurt? Did he hurt you?" he asked, and Charles knew had he said that Stryker had Erik would have torn Stryker to pieces, then and there, without hesitation.

"No; this is my doing," Charles said, and it was only half a lie.

The others in the room--and Charles was impressed by how many Emma had concealed, though the woman looked exhausted and Charles knew she had pushed herself to her limits--moved forward now to restrain Stryker's men, Charles gladly releasing his hold on them once they were secured--and honestly, he was surprised he still had the strength to continue holding Stryker, who was struggling fiercely, staring at Erik with an expression that bordered on hysteria.

Erik was still ignoring Stryker. Charles did the same and glanced across the room to Destiny, whose thoughts were screaming worry.

"Mystique's fine, and in the process of gathering some new recruits," he said.

Destiny smiled her gratitude. Charles turned his attention back to Erik, continuing to ignore Stryker who was now cursing at Cyclops as he officially placed Stryker under arrest.

"Hello," Charles said.

Erik's expression, which was growing increasingly frantic, softened considerably. "Hello," he said, reaching up to run a hand across Charles' head.

Over his shoulder, Hank stood watching them, his concern evident, so Charles sent a wave of reassurance in his direction. At his side, Logan was watching Cyclops and Rogue wrestle Stryker into a pair of cuffs--Charles too exhausted now to maintain anything but the barest of holds on the man. Logan looked poised to lash out--to surge forward and cut Stryker open, so Charles caught Erik's eye and nodded in his direction.

Erik glanced over his shoulder and scowled. Charles watched as Logan's arms came immediately to his sides, Logan tensing unnaturally as Erik magnetized him in place.

"We've already had this conversation," Erik said, seeming more disgruntled by the interruption than Logan's disobedience. When he had finished, he turned his attention back to Charles.

"Are you sure you're all right?" he asked. Now that Stryker and his men were secured and being led from the room, there was little reason to lie.

"I think possibly no," Charles said. Erik's eyes grew wide. He brought a hand to Charles' cheek, gaze searching. "As it turns out, it was a problem. The alcohol, I mean. Also, I suspect I should see a doctor."

Hank, who had been listening in to their conversation, immediately started moving. Charles didn't need to read his thoughts to know he was heading to retrieve Linda. Erik, who was on the verge of pulling Cerebro down around them--such was his panic--floundered for several moments before rising to his feet, grabbing Charles' chair by its handles and pushing it towards the door.

"It's not that urgent," Charles said, though it probably was. "And someone still needs to retrieve Mystique and the others from the Seychelles Islands. Also, there are other mutants--collared mutants--who require rescuing... Erik, please calm your mind."

But Erik wasn't listening; charging forward like Charles had only minutes to live. Charles endured it, but only because his adrenalin was wearing off, his body slowly crashing as the insanity of the past few days settled around his shoulders until he was half convinced he would be crushed under its weight.

Dimly, as they exited Cerebro, Charles heard Logan hollering for Erik to get his cape-wearing ass back in there to release him.

~*~

Destiny was speaking, but Erik wasn't paying attention. Words like _Stryker secured_ and _UN approval_ followed by _Mystique on her way back_ and _three other mutants_ making their way past the haze of fog that had settled over Erik's brain.

He'd barely even noticed Stryker's arrest--hadn't particularly cared about it. Destiny could have told him that Stryker had escaped and taken half of Genosha with him and Erik wouldn't have batted an eye. All that mattered--all that consumed him--was Charles.

It was bad enough knowing Charles was unwell, the fear and blinding panic becoming worse when Linda had promptly announced that Charles was in need of a hospital.

And now they were waiting. Erik hated waiting.

He'd tried pacing. Tried sitting patiently on the edge of one of the hard plastic seats that filled the waiting room. He tried storming his way into the emergency room, demanding to be allowed to remain at Charles' side. Only Charles' pointed look had sent Erik from the room; that and a warning from Charles' doctor that Erik's interference could further jeopardize Charles' health.

There was no one in the hospital who didn't know who Erik was--dozens of mutants coming into the ER to catch a glimpse of Magneto, all of them undoubtedly wondering who it was that warranted Magneto's worry--who it was that warranted Magneto's prolonged attention. Even Erik had heard the whispers by this point--most seemed to think it was his second in command, though it appeared word of his relationship with Charles was beginning to get around.

It was a long while later before someone finally came out into the waiting room to retrieve him.

Erik scowled when he saw that they'd sent a nurse and not Charles' doctor. He glared at the man.

"Um, sorry, Mr... I mean, Magneto, Sir. If you'll come with me..." the man stuttered, his tail twitching violently behind him. He was clearly as terrified as he was awed. Erik gestured for the man to lead the way. Hank and Linda, who were sitting across the room, stood and made as if to join them, but Erik shook his head, begging their cooperation. Linda sat first, pulling Hank down behind her.

The nurse led Erik through a set of security doors--the same ones Erik had pushed aside in his quest to see Charles the second time--and down a hall to a recovery ward. He stopped outside one of the private rooms, and gestured Erik inside.

Seeing Charles, alive and sitting up in a hospital bed, was like catching his breath after having nearly drowned. Erik stumbled into the room, not once taking his eyes from Charles' face. Charles smiled weakly, beckoning Erik farther into the room. Erik came to stand at the side of his bed.

Charles looked better than he had--he was still pale, but his skin no longer held the same sickly look that it had before, and the circles under his eyes had faded somewhat. And IV pierced the back of his hand, and a bag was tapped to the side of his bed, the inside spattered with drops of too dark urine. Hesitantly, Erik reached down to take Charles' hand in his.

"I asked if I could give you the particulars. I hope you don't mind," Charles said, and that explained the absence of a doctor--it also caused newfound worry to spike in Erik's mind, because if Charles felt he had to break the news to Erik then...

"It's nothing that terrible," Charles said with a soft smile. He patted the side of the bed. Erik sat, still clutching Charles' hand.

"You're going to live, though, whatever it is, right?"

"Of course," Charles said, rolling his eyes. Erik let himself sag with relief. "I'll start by mentioning that Hank was right. It would appear I have a drinking problem. I've been detoxing for several days now, and it's not going particularly well." Erik squeezed Charles' hand. "I should probably remain in hospital until my system clears. I've also been diagnosed with the beginning stages of liver disease, though it is not untreatable and there is a good chance my liver will regenerate on its own."

Charles had been speaking as though reading from a text--like he had the first time they'd had sex--but now Charles paused, seeming uncertain. Erik brought his hand to Charles' face, letting his fingers trace across Charles' cheekbone. Charles leaned into the touch.

"And now the part I wanted to tell you myself, but please remember that we do want Stryker alive."

Erik froze at that, though a squeeze for Charles' hand refocused his attention. Whatever Stryker had done to Charles, rotting in a Genoshan jail cell was a fate worse than death. Erik nodded for Charles to continue.

"I'm dehydrated and malnourished--though the latter is partly my fault and largely related to my own stupidity; apparently I haven't been properly absorbing nutrients for a while."

Charles cleared his throat, looking apologetic.

"I have two cracked ribs from where I was kicked." Erik sat up sharply at this, fury surging in his breast, but a squeeze from Charles kept it from erupting. Charles pressed on, perhaps not trusting Erik to disregard the revelation for long. "I have also developed pneumonia, and have a urinary tract infection."

When Charles didn't say anything else, Erik leaned forward to press their foreheads together. For a moment he simply relished the scent of Charles--clean and sterile in a way only someone confined to a hospital bed could smell. He wanted so badly to storm back to the capitol compound--to head down into the lower levels, where Stryker was undoubtedly being held--and to tear the man to pieces for ever letting Charles come to harm. Oh, how he hated him. But Charles was still clinging to him, silently begging him for stillness, so Erik pushed aside his rage and focused instead on being the man Charles needed him to be.

"But you're going to be fine?" he asked when he pulled away. Charles smiled.

"Yes, I will be fine."

Erik smiled at that--a grin that took over half his face. Charles shook his head.

"But there are more important things to worry about, Erik. I was inside Stryker's head and he's got compounds all across the globe, hundreds of mutants, collared or brain washed and imprisoned..." Erik lifted a hand to press against Charles' lips. Charles' eyes narrowed.

"I know, and we will find them and free them, but right now you need to rest. Leave the rest to me."

Charles shook his head. "I thought you wanted a partner, not an acolyte."

Erik glanced up sharply at that. "Are you saying you want to join me?" he asked, unable to stop a grin from spreading across his face. Charles choked a laugh.

"I rather think I already have."

And Erik couldn't help but beam at that, swooping in to pressing their lips together, hands coming up to cradle Charles' face. His fingers brushed against the backs of Charles' ears, tickling against the soft stubble on Charles' head. When he pulled away, Charles looked a little daze. He let out a little cough--one that turned into full-bodied hacking that sent Erik scrambling for a glass of water.

"Sorry, sorry," he said, Charles waving a hand, sipping at the water and rubbing at his chest until the attack passed.

"It's all right," he said, "although, possibly you do have a point. Still, you'll get them out, won't you?"

Erik nodded. "I promise," he said, running his hands over Charles' head. "And then we'll see about getting you a shave."

Charles laughed at that, though the sound stilled the second it seemed it might cross over into another coughing fit. He mastered himself, giving Erik a weak smile.

"I thought Hank had found a way around the shaving," Charles said. Erik let his fingers trail over the crest of Charles' skull.

"He has, but I rather like the look, and I rather liked shaving you." He watched, transfixed as Charles flushed--and then shook his head.

"Later, after I'm well," he said, but there was promise in his eyes, so Erik leaned forward and pressed a kiss against his forehead.

He wanted to stay that way forever--lips pressed to Charles' skin, Charles safe in his arms--but a discrete cough from the doorway interrupted the moment, Erik turning to find Hank and Linda peering hesitantly into the room. He pulled back, smiled, and beckoned them inside.

Turning back to Charles, he said, "They get five minutes, and then I'm coming back to kick them out."

Charles laughed at that, reaching between them to squeeze Erik's hand. It was painful leaving, but as soon as Erik made it back into the waiting room, he was bowled over by a very familiar mutant, so he didn't particularly mind.

"I swear, Erik, you have the best taste in men. He did it. He actually did it." Mystique looked more than a little worse for wear, but unlike Charles it was nothing a little food and water and rest couldn't solve. Still, Erik gave her a once over, feeling a tremendous surge of relief when he found her unharmed.

Across the room, Destiny was watching them with a soft smile, looking beyond happy to have Mystique home. Rogue and Cyclops had also made their way to the hospital. Rogue was beaming as she watched Erik and Mystique.

"You need to get some rest," Erik said, turning his attention back to Mystique. "We've got a rescue mission to plan and I'm going to need you in top form."

Mystique laughed at that. "So I've heard. You'll be happy to know I've already rescued three--single handed, I might add. You'll like Toad, he has a wicked tongue." Her expression turned serious then. Erik narrowed his gaze. "They had Tempest. She's fine--I don't think she'll stay, especially after she learned Hank was here, but she's fine."

Erik remembered that conversation with Hank; remembered the incredulity he'd felt knowing Hank had once been engaged to the woman. He'd always wondered what had happened to Angel. It angered him to think she had spent any time in Stryker's custody. She was free now, Erik reminded himself, and if he had anything to say about it, one day every single mutant on the planet would be free. His vision might no longer be the same--Charles had seen to that--but there were still causes worth fighting for, still a future worth shaping. With any luck, he'd have Charles at his side helping to shape that future. A future they both could stand behind.

"Go see your girl," Erik said, glancing back through the security doors. Mystique smiled knowingly and turned back to Destiny. Erik glanced at his team--at his Brotherhood--offering them a proud smile before he turned back the way he had come, Hank and Linda's five minutes over.

 

 _Epilogue_

 _Six months later_

Erik watched as Charles fumbled with the telepathic interface on his new chair, the chair wobbling slightly as it lifted into the air. He got it moving relatively quickly after that, floating serenely at Erik's side as they left the courthouse and descended the steep stairs down to the street.

"I wasn't expecting that," Erik said, but he knew he sounded pleased.

"Well, we did make a good case; it stands to reason the decision would be unanimous." Charles was smiling as he spoke, that mischievous grin that Erik had come to associate with Charles' secret keeping. Charles was terrible at keeping secrets--Erik's birthday had been fun--but always seemed to delight in having one.

"Come on, admit it, you gave them a push." Charles looked affronted.

"That would be a gross misuse of my abilities," he said, but he was smirking, and Erik knew he'd hit the mark--hell, Charles had been largely responsible for how quickly the UN had moved in setting up a trial once they had Stryker in custody. The Charles he'd met almost eight months ago never would have done such a thing; this Charles was learning to meet Erik somewhere in the middle--more importantly, this Charles was still seriously pissed off at Stryker.

Erik wasn't complaining. Stryker and his higher ranking officers would probably never see the outside of a jail cell after today. The world had stood in favour of mutantkind--had set precedent for human-mutant relations for decades and centuries to come. It was hard not to be pleased, even if Charles had had a hand in it.

"So what now?" Erik asked, letting his smile turn seductive. He arched a suggestive eyebrow in Charles' direction.

Charles laughed, even as he shook his head--in need of a shave again, but Erik wasn't complaining about that either. "Now we pack. In case you've forgotten, I have a tux fitting in New York in two days."

Erik pouted--he couldn't help himself. "You can't even spare half an hour?" he asked. He still didn't see why they had to hold the wedding in Westchester. It required so many additional travel arrangements.

Charles affected an exasperated expression, though Erik could see the beginnings of a fond smile threatening to spill across his face. It was obvious he had eavesdropped on that particular thought.

"You can't have a spring wedding in a place that doesn't have seasons; besides, Westchester is a perfect venue for a wedding. This will hardly be the first, or the last, I dare say."

Erik's expression grew a little dark at that, but Charles merely shook his head, sighing like the long-suffering boyfriend he seemed to think he was.

"Really, Erik. You have no call to be jealous of my late--and I repeat, late--wife, or our wedding. Now come on. If I miss the tux fitting Hank will have my head. It's a great honour, you know, being asked to stand--or sit, I suppose--as someone's best man."

Erik couldn't help but relent--Charles so very persuasive when he wanted to be. Besides, it wouldn't be too bad, a few months in Westchester, all on their own--once Hank and Linda departed for their honeymoon that was. They'd play chess and drink sparkling water and christen Charles' four poster bed--repeatedly--and take long strolls about the grounds. It would almost be like a vacation; a much needed vacation after the excitement of the last six months--Charles' rehab had been particularly ugly, the process still ongoing.

Not that Erik was complaining about any of that either. He had Charles by his side and the Brotherhood had grown to become a respected institution with new members joining daily. Even Logan popped in occasionally, though it was mostly to talk with Charles--something that still bothered Erik, but he was learning to live with it--or to flirt mercilessly with Worthington's old ward, Jean Grey, whom they'd found in Stryker's Alabama facility. It was almost comical watching Wolverine compete with Cyclops for the girl's affections--though Erik thought she was still far too young for either of them.

When they got back to Erik's apartment--that they had long since claimed as their own--Charles moved into the bedroom and went immediately for their suitcase--the one he'd set out that morning, before they'd gone to hear Stryker's verdict. He began tossing clothing into it, probably expecting Erik to help at some point. Instead, Erik stood back in the doorframe and watched him pack, feeling a well of affection bloom in his chest. God, how he loved this man--how lucky he was to have this man.

Charles, who undoubtedly felt Erik's scrutiny, glanced up, a confused frown marring his features until he sought out the source of Erik's distraction. Then he flushed, glancing down shyly before looking back up to meet Erik's eye.

"Oh, fine. I can spare half an hour," he said, shooting a pointed glance at the bed. Erik knew his answering grin was ridiculously wide, but he didn't care.

He was already halfway out of his clothes by the time he made it to the bed, hopping into it so that he bounced slightly upon hitting the mattress. He gave Charles his best come-hither look and patted the open space beside him.

Charles looked put-upon, but he was clearly fighting the beginnings of a pleased smile. He floated his chair--remarkable invention, and they had Hank to thank for that--to the side of the bed, pulled himself up onto it, and then slid up to rest on his elbows at Erik's side.

He licked his lips.

Erik found himself thoroughly distracted. Charles' lips never ceased to capture his attention--Charles was biting his lower lip now, looking more like a nervous virgin than the man who'd spent the better part of eight months sharing Erik's bed. Erik arched an eyebrow.

"Do you think about it?" Charles asked, blushing when it became clear that Erik had no idea what he was talking about. "Marriage, I mean."

And that was perfectly clear, because of course Erik had thought of it--particularly after Destiny had shared her vision the future, equality a scant few decades away. It was magnified after Hank and Linda had announced their engagement. Erik slipped an arm around Charles' waist and turned him onto his side, pulling him close. He pressed a kiss against the side of Charles' mouth.

"I think you might be a bit ahead of your time. Countries are only just starting to allow human-mutant marriages. If Destiny's right, it will be a while before they allow same-sex ones."

Charles' expression fell--but he smiled weakly and nodded. Erik could tell he was deeply embarrassed and more than a little disappointed. It occurred to Erik then that he had just been proposed to. He wondered how Charles had done it for his late wife, and then scolded himself firmly for trying to make the comparison--he was getting better at the jealousy, he really was. He shot Charles a coy smile.

"Of course, it wouldn't take much to amend Genoshan law," Erik said, letting that settle between them. Charles looked more than a little shocked.

"I was under the understanding that Genosha was ruled by elected council, which would mean putting any such amendment to a vote."

Erik grinned, letting his hand trail across the dip of Charles' waist. "Yes, but all the members of the council are also members of the Brotherhood, and so technically I'm their leader."

Charles' eyes grew bright. He shifted forward, pressing himself infinitely closer.

"So I'm dating a dictator then, am I?" he said with more cheek than Erik thought strictly necessary. He leaned forward and nipped at Charles' bottom lip in retaliation.

"I've been told it can have its perks," Erik said, pulling back.

It was a startling thing to watch Charles' bottom lip tremble--his eyes growing misty as though Erik had just offered him the moon--or world peace, or perfect equality for every person on the planet. It made Erik want to cradle Charles to his chest; to keep him safe from the world's many atrocities, to give him anything and everything the man could possibly desire.

Erik reached a trembling hand to Charles' face, thumb brushing against the moisture in his eyes even as he made nonsensical shushing noises. Charles laughed at that, giving Erik an exasperated--yet entirely too fond--look.

"Come on, then, my benevolent dictator," Charles said, and then, because he wouldn't have been Charles if he hadn't, he glanced at his watch and added, "You now only have twenty minutes."

Erik laughed at that, even he flipped Charles onto his back, fully intending to make good use of those minutes.

END


	26. Bonus Chapter

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bonus Chapter

Erik caught Charles' eye from across the room. He was talking to an old Oxford acquaintance, someone Hank had liked enough to invite to the wedding. Erik hadn't had a formal introduction, but he recognized the man from when Charles had pointed him out, telling Erik that Professor Villeneuve had been influential in Charles' decision to go into genetics. The man had to be in his eighties at this point.

 _Save me_ , Charles' voice filled Erik's head. It was clear, even from this distance, that Charles was profoundly miserable. Villeneuve may have been influential, but from Charles' stories, he was also extremely long-winded. Erik set his glass--mineral water--down on a waiter's passing tray, and started navigating the crowd to reach Charles' side.

It honestly surprised him, especially given what he knew of Hank--and Charles--that so many people had come. Charles' ballroom--and it still amused him that Charles had a ballroom--was overflowing with people, a good number of whom had come from Genosha. He caught sight of Mystique and Destiny out on the dance floor, and over in the corner Cyclops and Jean Grey were attempting to find some privacy. Gambit and Rogue had disappeared the second the dinner was cleared. Erik had no doubts as to what they were doing--though how they managed it with her mutation, he didn't know.

"I can't honestly say I'm willing to trust every mutant I meet, but you and Hank seem harmless enough, so I suppose there are always exceptions," Erik heard Villeneuve say.

Erik let the smile he'd adopted for Charles grow teeth.

"You don't say," he said when he reached Charles' side. He reached out with his power and tugged at Villeneuve's cuff links. The man's eyes grew wide and he glanced from Charles to Erik and then back again. It was clear he didn't pay attention to current events, because he obviously had no idea who Erik was, or even who Charles had become.

 _Erik_ , Charles chided inside his head, but Erik could tell he was pleased. He was developing a surprisingly low tolerance for people who showed prejudice towards mutants--even old university professors whom he had once admired. Erik congratulated himself.

Villeneuve, suddenly uncomfortable now that he was faced with a new mutant, made a hasty excuse about congratulating the bride and groom, and fled.

"The party is winding down anyway," Erik said, unapologetic.

Charles shook his head, but he didn't stop smiling, and he didn't chastise Erik for scaring the locals. Instead he inclined his head towards the patio doors that opened onto the veranda. Erik nodded his acceptance and gestured for Charles to lead the way.

It was still early in the year, and although the snow had long since melted, the night air held a slight hint of chill. Erik breathed deeply, sliding the door shut to both keep out the cold and keep in the vibrant sounds of merriment. Charles had floated himself to the railing and was looking out over the grounds, a soft smile pulling at his lips.

"It's been so busy, I feel like I haven't had a chance just to sit back and relax," he said.

Erik came to stand at his side, thinking better of it a moment later. He turned and sat on the railing, facing towards the house and, more importantly, Charles.

"I had no idea wedding planning required so much work. I say we elope."

Charles laughed at that, smile growing fond. It still surprised him, that Charles was serious about wanting to marry him. It seemed Charles was just as surprised that Erik had agreed--that Erik hadn't forgotten about the promise the second they'd left Genosha. He was staring at Erik now like he couldn't quite fathom where Erik had come from--or how he had gotten so lucky. Erik was intimately familiar with the expression; he'd worn its twin more times than he could count in the past few months.

"We should possibly go in," Erik said, noticing then that Charles' exposed flesh had turned to gooseflesh.

Charles nodded, but instead of heading back into the house, he turned to stare down the gravel pathway that circled the house. The wide oak that Erik now knew was a favourite spot of Charles' was only just beginning to bloom, leaf buds curling open in a testament to new beginnings. Erik was momentarily struck with the memory of finding Charles under that same tree, autumn having stained its leaves scarlet red. It still astonished him how quickly, and thoroughly, his life had changed since then.

"I've missed this place," Charles said, and he sounded surprised, like the thought hadn't occurred to him until now. Erik pushed himself off the railing and came to stand at Charles' side, staring out into the night.

"You know, we could summer here. Genosha's lovely in the winter, but it's hot as hell in the summer. It might be nice to alternate between the two."

He could tell Charles was smiling even without looking down--he could feel it in his head, the Charles-shaped presence radiating contentment.

"I'd like that," Charles said, reaching out to take Erik's hand. "Now let's go in."

Erik gave Charles hand a brief squeeze, tugging him towards the door. He let his smile grow mischievous.

"You know, it is getting late." It wasn't really, at least, not for a wedding, but Erik was hoping Charles would ignore that bit. "Perhaps we should retire. I've been dying to peel you out of that tux ever since you put it on."

Tonight was the first time he had seen Charles in black tie. He hadn't even worn a tux for his Symposium speech--and God, that felt like such a long time ago now. There was something almost irresistible about Charles; head freshly shaved, eyes bright and amused, wearing a well-tailored tux that had undoubtedly cost a fortune. His shirt, linen white, collar perfectly starched, framed a neat bowtie, making him look dignified and dangerous in a way his tweed never would.

Not that Erik hadn't grown to love the tweed--he had--but there was something about Charles in a tux that rather short-circuited his brain. He was looking forward to taking Charles somewhere private, away from all these prying eyes.

Charles laughed at the statement, bright and happy.

"I assure you, love, you look far, far better in yours." He let Erik see then, the image that appeared in Erik's head far too perfect to belong to him. This was how Charles saw him--some sculpted, Greek-like God, cut as much from marble as flesh and blood. Erik shook his head, pleasantly flattered.

He tightened his grip on Charles' hand and dragged him back into the house, through the ballroom and towards the wide double doors that exited into the hall. Every person they passed ignored their going--save Logan, who only smirked in their direction--and Erik knew he had Charles to thank for that. They'd been in Westchester two weeks and had only christened Charles' bed--their bed, Erik thought fiercely--a dozen times. As far as Erik was concerned, that was bordering on criminal. The last thing he wanted was someone interrupting their leaving.

He led Charles to the lift near the front doors--though Charles' chair's new telepathic interface could have easily floated him up the stairs. Erik wanted to conserve his energy, though, so he ignored the protest Charles was projecting at him, forced them onto the lift, and let machinery take them up to their bedroom.

It had taken him several days to learn he lay of the place, Erik getting lost more than a few times in those first few days--and he knew now how Charles must have felt when he first came to Genosha--than he had at any other point in his life. He knew the house now, intimately, every corner of it as familiar a home as Genosha could ever be.

He thought he might enjoy spending his summers here.

Their room--which was originally Charles' room, though Erik could not picture Charles sleeping in the king-sized bed alone--was not the largest on the floor--that was currently being used as the honeymoon suite--but it was a fair size, warm and comfortable in a way their apartment in Genosha was only now starting to feel. Erik crossed to the bed, pulling down the covers on both sides before reaching up to loosen his bowtie.

"No, leave it," Charles said, projecting an image that stole Erik's breath while simultaneously hardening his cock. Erik let his hands fall away, moving to sit on the edge of the bed. He arched an eyebrow in Charles' direction.

Charles excused himself only briefly--and Erik was used to this; he let Charles' absence feed his anticipation. When Charles returned, he was still wearing his tux, still immaculately pressed. He floated over to where Erik was sitting, letting his chair rise until they were sitting face to face. Charles reached across and ran his thumbs along the creases of Erik's tie.

"You can't even imagine how badly I've wanted to do this. All night, Erik, since you first stepped out of that bathroom and asked me to straighten your tie."

With that, Charles gave a gentle tug, and Erik's tie came unravelled. Erik felt heat creep up his spine. Charles licked his lips, even as his pupils dilated. It took all of Erik's willpower not to simply reach for Charles, to drag him into Erik's lap. The last time he'd done such a thing, Charles had given him a firm lecture--though Erik was still convinced Charles had enjoyed the experience.

Next, Charles started on the buttons of Erik's jacket, pulling the lapels aside when he was done to get to Erik's vest. Every motion was slow and deliberate--this was Charles taking his time, savouring the moment. Erik leaned back onto his hands, pressed out his chest, and let Charles work.

His shirt came next, Charles gesturing him up so that he could pull it from Erik's pants. He undid each tiny, pearl-carved button with such care, such devotion, that Erik's mouth went dry, his entire body humming with desire. He pushed Erik's shirt open, Erik allowing himself to be distracted only long enough to push the jacket, vest and shirt over his shoulders, shrugging out of the offending garments until he was sitting only in his trousers and undershirt. Charles smiled--a little appreciatively, Erik thought--and reached for Erik's belt.

"You always strip for me," Charles said, "but you never let me strip you." He slid Erik's belt out from around his pants, the movement agonizingly slow, until finally it was free from all the loops. Charles tossed it onto the ground.

"That's only because I'm impatient," Erik said, earning one of Charles' genuine chuckles.

"You don't say," he said, gesturing for Erik to stand now.

Erik stood, moving forward until his knees were brushing against Charles' chair.

Charles let his gaze trail up Erik's torso, then back down again until he was staring at the outline of Erik's erection. He wet his lip a second time, and then reached for the clasp on Erik's pants. Erik hastily toed off his shoes as Charles slid the clasps apart. Charles pulled the fabric apart while Erik shimmied his hips, until the material slid down his legs, leaving Erik in only his undershirt, boxers and socks.

At a gesture from Charles, he sat back on the bed, shifting back until he was sitting cross-legged in the middle. Charles brought his chair forward until his knees brushed the edge of the mattress. He reached up to tug at his bowtie.

This wasn't the first time Charles had stripped for him, but the occasions were few and far between. No matter how comfortable Charles got--with their relationship, with his limitations--he always seemed a little nervous about Erik watching him undress. There was none of his usual hesitance now. He caught Erik's eye and held his gaze, slowly stripping away his layers until he was nude from the waist up. Erik watched, transfixed, reveling at the slow reveal of milky-white flesh.

When Charles was left only in his trousers, he transferred neatly onto the bed, positioning himself so that he was leaning against the headboard. Erik was on him in an instant, hands coming to his pants, flicking open their fastenings with his power as he tugged the material over Charles' hips and down his legs. They got caught on his shoes, so Erik stripped those off, tossing them onto the floor. Charles' boxers and socks followed a minute behind.

"I think you have me at a disadvantage, my friend," Charles said, eyeing the clothes Erik still wore. Erik grinned; then pulled his undershirt over his head even as he reached for his boxers. When he was naked, he crawled into Charles' lap.

"Better?" he asked, earning one of Charles' genuine smiles.

Charles had been inside his head for the better part of the night, a warm, weighted presence that Erik had grown so used to it physically hurt whenever they were forced to sever the link. He surged to the forefront now, occupying Erik's mind in a way he only ever did when they were in bed. The sensation was as arousing as the feel of Charles pinned beneath him. Erik shivered, and then leaned forward to press their lips together.

Charles tasted like the cranberry juice he'd been drinking before Erik had dragged him away from the reception. Beneath it, a slight hint of chocolate--Hank and Linda's cake--and something Erik could only identify as Charles. Erik moaned into the kiss, letting his hands come up to frame Charles' face. Charles surged forward, nipping at Erik's bottom lip even as he pulled Erik firmly against his body and into his mind. The division between them ceased to exist.

They'd experimented, once, at the end of one of the rescue missions Erik had gone on without Charles. Charles had used Cerebro to link their minds, and when Erik had fallen asleep--strapped inside his Blackbird chair--Charles had pulled him onto the astral plane. It was easily the best flight of Erik's life, though he'd woken to six pair of eyes staring at him in horror-struck amusement. Apparently he talked in his sleep.

Charles didn't drag them there now, seeming content to simply piggy-back on Erik's sensations, creating a feedback loop between them that heightened every touch and intensified every emotion. Acting on impulse that was half his, half Charles', Erik shifted down until he was braced on either side of Charles knees. He reached for Charles' waist, grabbing Charles just above the hips, pulling until Charles was sprawled across the pillows. He leaned forward then and licked a stripe from Charles' navel to his right nipple. Charles moaned beneath him.

"I think I'd like to kiss every inch of you," Erik said into the space between them, taking his time to do exactly that.

He began with Charles' waist, kissing and licking and biting his way across the soft expanse of Charles' stomach. He followed the line of Charles' ribs, kissing along his sides, then up and over to kiss across his chest. When he reached the place just below Charles' breastbone, Charles chuckle and tried to shift away.

"No cheating," Erik said, the words a challenge. Charles stilled instantly, pulsing amusement and want across their link.

In the first few months of their relationship, their every encountered was hurried and frantic, Erik's need for Charles--his desperation--stripping him of any finesse he might have otherwise possessed. Somewhere along the way Erik had settled and now he was free to take his time, to make each encounter as slow and as leisurely as he liked--though occasionally, particularly after a mission, he reverted back to frenzied thrusting and desperate fucking. For the first time in his life, though, he was learning that sex could be fun. These days he spent more time laughing in bed than he had previously thought possible.

He was fighting a smile now, purposely seeking out every one of Charles' most ticklish spots--the space between his third and fourth ribs, the space just under his arm, set against the musk of his armpit, the hollow of his navel, the backs of his ears; a thousand others that had Charles laughing and squirming while trying so desperately to remain still. He was failing miserably.

"Over," Erik said, when he had touched or kissed or bit or licked every single inch of Charles' torso, neck and face.

He shifted up as he said this, allowing Charles to reach for his legs and slowly roll himself over. Charles folded his arms beneath his chin and titled his head to the side, glancing over his shoulder to meet Erik's eye. He arched an eyebrow, his own challenge.

Charles was not particularly ticklish on his back--this Erik knew--but the game was no longer about getting Charles to squirm. Erik wanted to make Charles writhe in pleasure--to see him come completely undone. He started by finding the place at the back of Charles' neck--the one that always made Charles arch against Erik's lips and shudder out a gasping moan.

Tonight was no exception, Charles going very still, tilting his head forward into the hollow of his arms to grant Erik better access. He shivered, even as he whimpered, the sound carrying throughout the room.

Erik lingered there for several long minutes before trailing his lips down the line of Charles' spine. He let his hands trace patterns across Charles' shoulders as he moved, Charles no longer laughing, his breath having grown shallow, his entire body taut with tension.

Erik stopped only when he reached the mess of scar tissue that framed the boundary between where Charles could feel and where Charles could not.

It had taken Charles months before would allow Erik to linger there--at first Erik had thought the site painful, but Charles had assured him it was not. Now Charles only shifted into the sensation, letting Erik's tongue lave the scar with careful precision.

There was beauty in it, however much Charles thought otherwise--a testament to both the body's ability to heal and its fragility. Erik pulled his tongue away, only to slide two fingers over the wet, saliva-coated  
knots that twisted a line down Charles' spine. Beneath him, Charles shivered.

"Can I?" Erik asked, opening his mind so that Charles could see exactly what it was Erik wanted to do. Charles moaned, torso shifting in such a way that Erik knew his answer even before he spoke.

"God yes," Charles still said, so Erik flicked his wrist, opening the nightstand drawer by its metal knob and then floating out the metal canister that hid their lubricant.

This was not something they did often--at least, not outside the astral plane--the process slow and methodical--and Erik knew now that had they tried in those earlier months, he would have undoubtedly hurt Charles in his eagerness. He had mellowed considerably since then, so he now took his time lifting Charles' hips to slide a pillow beneath them before opening the canister to retrieve a tube of lube.

He coated two fingers, and then reached for Charles with his clean hand to spread his cheeks apart. Charles' couldn't yet feel the sensation, so Erik guided him through it with his thoughts, letting Charles watch through Erik's eyes. When his slicked finger reached Charles' hole, he let them circle several times, slowly, before pressing inside--just past the tight ring of muscles.

He played there for a good deal long than was perhaps necessary, but the sight was arousing and Charles was sharing his arousal, so Erik suspected Charles didn't mind that for him the event was without sensation.

"I'm going to breach you now," Erik said, voice hoarse and uneven. He stopped to apply more lube.

His cock sat heavy between his legs, and he wanted more than anything to press into Charles--to fuck him slowly and leisurely until they both fell apart. It didn't work that way, though, so Erik slowly pushed his fingers inside, paying close attention to Charles' half of the link so that he would know the second he passed Charles' threshold.

The spark of pleasure that bloomed in Charles' mind was like a shock to Erik's system, even though he was expecting it. Charles moaned into the pillow. Erik stilled his hand, allowing Charles to simply get used to the sensation. Only when Charles' thoughts settled did Erik push further inside, finding Charles' prostate and rubbing steadily against it.

Charles whimpered, even as his mind flared, liquid heat flowing across the link until Erik was half afraid he might come without ever being touched.

 _Erik, Erik, Erik, please_ , Charles shouted into his mind.

"You're not ready yet," Erik said, slowly pulling his fingers free. He added more lubricant and slid them back inside. Charles sobbed into the pillow.

He played with Charles--stretched Charles--for far longer than necessary, Erik too captivated by the sight of Charles--skin flushed red, knuckles white where they clutched at his pillow, sweat beading down his spine--to want to stop. It was only when the voice inside his head--the one begging him for release--fell silent, Charles' telepathy abandoning him in his need, that Erik decided to take pity on him.

He pulled his fingers--three of them now--free and liberally coated his penis with lubricant. After a moment of consideration, he added another pillow beneath Charles' hips.

"Are you ready?" he asked, barely recognizing his voice, so thick was it with desire.

Charles let out an affirmative sounding moan.

It took every ounce of his willpower to slide into Charles slowly--to allow him to become accustom to Erik's girth. He watched himself slide into Charles' body--partly to ensure he didn't tear Charles, but mostly because the sight of his cock, vanishing slowly into the heat of Charles' body, was not something he was capable of tearing his gaze from.

Charles remained perfectly still, though the second Erik crossed his threshold, he hissed, grunting nonsensical words until Erik was fully seated.

"Still," Erik commanded. Charles shivered at the sound of Erik's Magneto voice, but he stilled.

Waiting--oh God, waiting--was painful, but Erik waited, letting Charles stretch around him. He waited until the tension drained from Charles' shoulders--clenched hands releasing their death grip on the pillow--and then pulled back until his tip slid past Charles' boundary. He applied a little more lube, and slid back inside. He wasn't going to last--he never did when they did this--but that was okay, because neither was Charles.

Charles was breathing heavily now, pleasure spiked so high that all Erik could feel from Charles' half of the link was white-hot need. He was purposely redirecting the sensation of Erik inside him, so that Erik could feel what he was doing--experience Charles' pleasure--without feeling like he himself was being penetrated. That wavered now, Charles struggling to keep all his wires straight. Erik pulled out, and slid back inside.

"Almost there," he said, both a promise and a warning. Charles keened, a high, desperate sound that echoed throughout the room. Anyone standing outside their door would know exactly what they were doing. For once, Erik didn't care.

He expected to have at least a few more thrusts in him--to be able to take his time taking Charles across the line--but when he pulled back the third time, Charles slipped from his grasp, spiraling into his orgasm with little more than a hoarse shout. Erik's hips stuttered, his body growing taut as he rode Charles' completion, entire body tingling and throbbing even as his cocked throbbed and pulsed inside Charles' body, spilling his seed too near the surface to do anything but make an incredible mess. Charles' orgasm was so overwhelming--so blinding--that Erik missed his own. It marked the first time Charles had come before him. The sensation was dizzying.

"Sorry, sorry," Charles was saying, half in words, and half in Erik's mind.

Erik shushed him, taking a moment to catch his breath before he slowly withdrew--so very careful not to hurt Charles on the way out. Semen dribbled out of Charles' hole, spilling between his legs to pool against the underside of his balls. Erik's cock twitched at the sight. He flopped down heavily on the bed at Charles' side.

"That was unexpected," he said when he could talk, but he let Charles feel the pleasure of his surprise--the delight in having pushed Charles over before Erik was ready. Charles grunted beside him, undoubtedly already slipping into slumber--he had a tendency to whenever he'd pushed his telepathy to its limits.

Erik mustered some strength from somewhere deep inside. He wiped his fingers on the sheets and then pushed himself out of the bed, crossing to the bathroom, where he washed his hands and cleaned himself off, then wet a hand towel. He returned to the bed and used it to clean Charles as best he could.

"You can't sleep yet," he said, Charles grunting a second time, but he knew perfectly well the danger involved in ignoring this, so he rolled himself over and then pushed up into his elbows. His stomach--and the pillows--was sticky with come. Erik folded the hand towel in half and used it to clean Charles' stomach.

"This is the only time I really hate not being able to walk," Charles said.

It took a good deal longer than usual for him to transfer into his chair. He gave Erik his best self-deprecating smile as he set the chair onto the ground, using the wheels to wheel himself into the bathroom. Erik chuckled, pleased to see he had worn Charles out so thoroughly that he wasn't even capable of using his telepathy to guide his chair.

While Charles was seeing to his needs, Erik set about stripping the sheets--they were beyond salvaging, which tended to happen when they did this. It was worth it though, even if his head was still spinning from the intensity of Charles' orgasm. More than anything he wanted to collapse into a heap and sleep until noon the next day.

He knew Charles better than that, though, so when the bed was freshly changed, he pulled out Charles' chess set--the one he'd given Charles, that Charles had insisted on bringing with them, even though the mansion had numerous sets located throughout. He set it up in the space between his side of the bed and Charles, already contemplating his first move when Charles exited the bathroom. Charles looked exhausted, but his eyes lit up at the sight of the board, and he didn't complain when Erik opened with his usual move--pawn to e5. The opening had yet to win him a game, but tonight Erik was feeling lucky.

**Author's Note:**

> A million thanks to those gracious enough to make fanart for this piece.
> 
> Thank you eira_cannaid for the beautiful cover art:
> 
> http://nekosmuse.com/tessellationcover.png
> 
> Thank you saran-is-wrapped for the incredible comic series:
> 
> #1: http://nekosmuse.tumblr.com/post/95319471127/saran-is-wrapped-fanart-2-for-the-fanfic  
> #2: http://nekosmuse.tumblr.com/post/95319560287/saran-is-wrapped-fanart-2-for-the-fanfic  
> #3: http://nekosmuse.tumblr.com/post/95319560287/saran-is-wrapped-fanart-2-for-the-fanfic

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [[Podfic of] Tessellation](https://archiveofourown.org/works/495345) by [Dr_Fumbles_McStupid](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dr_Fumbles_McStupid/pseuds/Dr_Fumbles_McStupid), [Ktown](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ktown/pseuds/Ktown)




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